


The Flip Side of Fear

by njw



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Also Fear Gas, Batfamily (DCU) Feels, Bfams-Dick Grayson, Bfams-spotlight, Dick Grayson Gets a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fear gas, Gen, Hallucinations, Humor, Referenced Canonical Non Con, but mostly hugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26217805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/njw/pseuds/njw
Summary: “Ow,” Nightwing mutters, wincing as he stretches a bit to check the status of his ribs. Bruised, maybe, but not broken. Well, it could be worse. He takes a deep breath, then freezes as he feels a sharp stab of pain in his neck. What…?He smacks his hand on the spot, expecting to find an insect or maybe a thorn. These are Ivy’s plants, after all. Instead, his hand slaps down on—another hand? Jerking in shock and yanking on the hand, Nightwing sees familiar loose burlap gloves over long, claw-like fingers. “Oh no,” he whispers.Clutched in Scarecrow’s hand is an empty syringe.Well, shit.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Stephanie Brown & Cassandra Cain & Tim Drake & Barbara Gordon & Dick Grayson & Jason T. & Damian W., Tim Drake & Dick Grayson
Comments: 148
Kudos: 703
Collections: Batfam Ship Character Spotlight





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the Batfam Ship discord server Character Spotlight event. When I saw this month’s spotlight character was Dick Grayson, my mind jumped to the fear gas scene in my story _Bare It Together_ and immediately started building a new, more Dick-centric story around it. The mods were okay with me doing a remix, so this story has a sprinkling of reworked lines in the first chapter and chapter three is pretty much an extended spliced remix of _Bare It Together_ chapter two. Everything else is new for this story, which is standalone and unrelated to the other besides a few borrowed bits. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Nightwing alights on a roof overlooking Robinson Park and crouches, blood racing and every sense on high alert. The fires in Coventry to the northwest illuminate the brooding, low clouds to reveal a hellish scene below.

People surge through the darkened streets, shouting and shoving one another as they take advantage of the chaos to add to the havoc without fear of reprisal. He sees flaming cars and shattered storefronts as the mob spreads out, alarms wailing in their wake, but he knows all too well the overwhelmed police won’t respond any time soon.

Horns blare and sirens keen in the distance where traffic is backed up for blocks. It’s standard practice to shut down all the bridges and tunnels to prevent the riots from spilling over to the mainland, but people never seem to learn. Screams, peals of wild laughter, and the sound of breaking glass cut through the general dull roar of Gotham City in full crisis mode. The Batsignal shines above it all, a cry for help and a beacon of hope for the truly desperate.

It’s an Arkham breakout. All hands are on deck, and it might not be enough.

Nightwing listens to the chaos. Every impulse strains to respond to the cries for help around him and it takes a supreme effort to turn his back on people in need. He wants to save everyone, knows that even one innocent lost on his watch will be a failure beyond his ability to bear.

But if there’s one lesson he’s had drilled into him over and over through the years, it’s that he can’t do everything himself. With all the will in the world, he can’t be everywhere at once. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but he’s working on it.

He still gives it everything he has, and more. But that’s not the plan this time. He’s not alone tonight—the rest of the Bats are out in force. The other rogues are in their hands, and he needs to complete his own mission as fast as possible so he can assist wherever else he’s needed.

There are so many ways things could go wrong out there.

Batman and Robin are facing the Joker at Amusement Mile, Red Robin’s tracking Poison Ivy somewhere in Robinson Park, Bat Girl is rounding up Mr. Freeze, and Black Bat’s after Firefly. God knows what Red Hood is doing in the midst of all this. He’s not exactly the most reliable member of the team. Or even an official member of the team, really. Hopefully he’s chosen to help tonight, or at least not add to the chaos.

Any one of them could need an assist, and he needs to be ready. No one else he cares about is falling on his watch. Not now, not ever. 

Nightwing doesn’t have time to spare. He frowns as he scans his surroundings, focusing now on the details that might reveal which rogues are operating in the immediate vicinity. Every villain has their own style and he knows them all too well.

There are a few fights going on in the street below him, including what looks like a handful of prostitutes. They’re beating up a large man who snarls threats as he struggles in their grasp. A girl who can’t possibly be out of her teens is standing nearby, crying and clutching at her torn clothes to hold them in place. It doesn’t take much to figure out what probably happened there. 

He considers jumping down to help, then spots several vines emerging from Robinson Park. As he watches, the vines wrap around the pimp’s arms and legs and go taut, apparently holding him still for the young men and women to hit.

Ivy.

He swallows, quickly dismissing the idea of helping. She’s probably got this handled and he’s pretty sure she wouldn’t welcome his interference. Anyway, Red Robin must be nearby, since he’s the one assigned to bring her in tonight. It’s doubtful he’d be any happier to have Nightwing muscle in on his mission. Things haven’t been great between them for a while now, and it’s probably not something that’s going to be fixed on patrol. He cuts off the thought, but not before a part of him wonders if it’s something he’ll be able to fix at all. Well, that’s depressing.

Okay then, moving on.

There’s no sign of the rogue he came here to find. None of the people below are exhibiting symptoms of fear gas exposure, and there doesn’t seem to be any real organization behind the chaos. Everyone he can see looks to be in it for themselves with no underlying order or overarching plan to any of the destruction. Where’s Scarecrow?

He taps his comm. “Oracle?”

She responds without a pause, her modulated voice all business. “Nightwing.” He hears rapid typing in the background and wonders once again if the others are okay. “Jonathan Crane entered the building immediately east of your position about twenty minutes ago. My cameras don’t show anyone else entering the building today besides the regular construction crews, the last of whom left three hours ago. Based on heat scans, Scarecrow appears to be alone in the building.”

Turning, he checks out the building in question. It’s a bank surrounded by scaffolding, apparently undergoing reconstruction. That’s a pretty common sight in Gotham City thanks to the near-constant barrage of destructive plots perpetrated by the various rogues. Squinting, he tries to remember if he was there for this one. The realization he has no idea what villain it was or which Bat dealt with them sends a frisson of unease through him, stirring feelings of resentment, guilt and regret faster than he can get rid of them.

Gotham isn’t his city anymore, not really. And the other Bats aren’t his partners. That’s fine—it is. He values his independence, and every decision he’s made has always had what seemed like perfectly logical reasoning behind it at the time. He can’t regret that. What he does regret is the distance that seems to have opened up over the past few years between him and the people he thinks of as his family.

He’s used to living with the whole complicated morass of history between him and Bruce. And the anger and mistrust in Jason’s eyes now isn’t actually that different from the way he used to look back when all Dick saw when he looked at him was another kid in his family’s colors. It hurts, but it’s an old ache. As for Babs, well, he’s lucky they managed to patch things up after everything that’s gone wrong between them. That they still have a functional friendship at all is probably more due to her capacity for forgiveness than his anything. Either way, he’s grateful to still have her in his life.

Messed up as it is, he’s used to all of that.

It’s the others that are getting to him. Damian’s bluster and snarls, slapped on like a bandage over the hurt he can’t hide—well, that’s new, and Nightwing hasn’t figured out how to fix it yet. The subtle blankness that slides over Tim’s face like a mask whenever he’s around is also a recent development. That one might be even harder to fix.

He can’t help but feel like the schism is growing. He can’t remember the last time he saw anyone in the family outside patrol, and not for lack of effort on his part. Damian rejects his offers with blunt dismissals, Tim always has excuses that sound legitimate but are starting to wear thin at this point, and Jason seems to take joy out of laughing his ass off before hanging up. Cass and Steph appear to be solidly on Tim’s side, and he can’t even blame them.

Some of his relationships are in such a painful tangle, he isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to figure out a way to smooth things out. It’s looking less and less likely that everything will just work out on its own over time.

Well, crap. There goes his main strategy for how to fix relationships after screwing them up.

Another scream jars Nightwing out of that disastrous train of thought. He shakes it off and considers the case for a minute, then shrugs. Scarecrow, without any henchmen and only having had a few hours at most since his escape from Arkham? Child’s play. “Okay. Thanks, O, I’m going in.”

“Are you sure you want to go in now? I can divert Red Robin—” The sound of her typing speeds up and she bites off a vicious curse. “Actually, no. His fight with Ivy is heating up. How about—”

Nightwing shakes his head, not caring who she’s going to suggest next. He’s not about to steal anyone from another fight just to provide backup he probably won’t even end up needing.

“Negative,” he says. “I’ve got this.” He silences the comm and dons his rebreather before leaping across to the rooftop opposite. He lands in a silent crouch and listens, half-expecting to hear shouts of alarm and footsteps approaching from within. All he hears is the dull roar of Gotham tearing itself apart. He gives it another minute, then eases his way into the building through a roof vent.

He weaves his way over and between exposed girders, movements light and graceful as he leaps the gaps. He makes his way across the interior until he’s close enough to hear muttered words and see movement. Scarecrow. The masked villain is pacing below in a distinctly maniacal fashion, his grotesque, distorted shadow flickering in the dim emergency lighting. He’s muttering under his breath, showing every sign of being well on his way to working himself up to a full rant.

“—already added the base chemicals to the reservoir. Now I just need to add the final ingredient to activate the chemical reaction so that fear will finally reign _supreme!_ But those damned plants interrupted me before I could finish, and they’ll attack again if I try to go back. Curse that woman and her obsession with clean water for her thrice-bedamned plants!” The tall, gaunt man flails his long arms through the air, clenching bony hands into fists of frustration.

Nightwing blinks. Huh. Sounds like Ivy ran interference on Scarecrow’s plan. Well, that’s convenient. He smiles. It’s always a relief when the rogues work against each other instead of teaming up.

Scarecrow snickers, drawing his attention. “Patience—I simply need to cultivate patience. After all, the Bat will be there soon, with weed poison.” His voice lowers to a malevolent rasp. “And while they’re distracted fighting each other, all I need to do is sneak past them to the reservoir, and drop in the catalyst—” The man’s pacing brings him into position directly beneath the girder Nightwing is balanced on just as he utters those words.

Sometimes this job is too easy. “Speaking of dropping in—” Nightwing cackles with delight as he jumps off and plummets feet-first toward the shocked rogue, landing on him like a sack of bricks.

Beneath him, Scarecrow crumples to the floor with a groan. One of his hands jerks up clutching a gleaming syringe. Nightwing immediately moves to immobilize that hand, realizing his error a moment too late. The long, claw-like fingers of Scarecrow’s other hand hook onto his rebreather and claw it loose, just as a loud hissing sound fills the air.

Well that’s not good.

It seems this isn’t going to be as easy as he hoped. Nightwing throws himself away from the rogue and rapidly works to secure his rebreather. Scarecrow uses the opportunity to flee, tossing aside a tiny gas canister he apparently had hidden beneath his loose clothing. Nightwing forces his breathing to remain even as he takes stock. His heart rate doesn’t seem to be increasing and he’s not experiencing any hallucinations or other symptoms of having been exposed. The volume of gas released from that canister couldn’t have been much, and his rebeather was only loose for a few seconds. Hopefully he didn’t receive a high dose.

Rebreather finally secured, Nightwing throws himself into pursuit of the rogue. He follows him through an open door to emerge onto the sidewalk in front of the half-rebuilt bank. Car horns blare in front of him, where traffic is backed up in both directions on Mortimer Ave. A few vehicles skewed sideways show him Scarecrow’s route and the havoc he left behind. Beyond the roadway, he can see the rogue’s back as he flees into Robinson Park.

“Damn it,” he mutters, then speeds up, leaping from cartop to cartop before alighting on the soft grass and racing after the fleeing villain. He’s gaining ground, but this was not the plan. Ivy and Red Robin are fighting somewhere around here, and the last thing anyone needs is for them to face off against two rogues at once and risk losing one in the resulting chaos. If he can just intercept Scarecrow before they encounter Ivy—

Even as the resolve forms in his mind, the fleeing figure in front of him lets out a shocked wail as he’s slammed into the ground by what looks like a tsunami of roiling green vines. Oops. Nightwing skids to a halt, wincing as he spots a slim figure in black and red struggling in the vines as well.

It seems Red Robin’s fight isn’t going any better than his.

He tenses, ready to throw himself into the fight, then freezes when Red Robin looks his way and gives a minute shake of his head. Nightwing freezes, torn between saving his little brother and trusting him.

He hasn’t stood on firm ground with this particular little brother since he took away the suit. A show of trust is probably in order. Despite his reluctance, he signals that he won’t interfere.

The moment he gives the sign, Red Robin twists, fighting the grip of the dozens of thick vines encompassing his body. Growling, he pries a tiny bottle free from his bandoliers and manages to use his teeth to loosen the cap, then nudges it carefully with his chin. As the liquid in the bottle spills out and splashes over the plants in his vicinity, he grins.

The vines around him begin to shrivel and blacken. They recoil as if in pain, releasing both of their captives as an unearthly vegetative keening fills the air. Nearby, a woman screams in eerie unison with the plants—Ivy. As the vines draw back, Scarecrow rolls free and surges to his feet, already reaching for his pockets. 

Nightwing and Red Robin barely have time to brace themselves and square off against their respective adversaries before two slim, agile forms come flying onto the scene, converging from different directions and sending everything into chaos again. As they come to a halt near him, he recognizes Black Bat and Batgirl.

Batgirl laughs, sounding way too happy as she bounds forward, tailed by a sputtering, furious Mr. Freeze. “Give it back!” he demands, sending a blast of ice her way. She ducks, as does Red Robin who gives a startled yelp but manages to get out of the way. Beyond him, Ivy’s reflexes aren’t quite as fast. She takes the ice blast right to her legs.

Inhaling in shock, she stares at her ice-encased legs, then at the blackened vines unfortunate enough to be caught in the blast as well. Turning a furious grimace at the newcomer, she snarls, “How dare you? I _hate_ frost. It kills my darlings!” She raises her arms, summoning more vines from the surrounding greenery.

Frost holds up his gloved hands, looking dismayed and irritated. “I assure you I have no quarrel with you, Ms. Isley—I was aiming for that annoying little brat.” He scowls and raises his arm to point dramatically at Batgirl. “She stole the designs for my new—”

“I don’t _care!”_ Ivy roars, sending her remaining plants his way in a wave of fury. Batgirl cackles, dancing out of the way toward Black Bat, who barely seems to be paying attention to the ruckus. She’s just standing there, staring at the sky to the north. Well, that’s ominous.

Red Robin scrambles to his feet and begins a whispered conversation with Batgirl, both of them staring at the embattled rogues. They’re almost certainly planning a strategy.

Nightwing wonders if he should help, then catches sight of Scarecrow, who is predictably edging toward the reservoir. He rolls his eyes, then catches the rogue with a couple of well-aimed wingdings. Scarecrow collapses, cursing, onto a nearby mass of roiling vines and rapidly disappears. Nightwing eyes the vines for a moment, wondering if he should take the time to haul him back out.

Eh, he’ll keep.

There’s no time to do anything about him, anyway, because at that moment the clearing lights up with a blazing brilliance that dazzles his eyes. He lowers his head as he reaches up and deactivates the starlight lenses. Blinking back tears, he looks up again and immediately spots an incoming fire ball, still distant but rapidly growing closer. “Holy shit!” he yelps, reaching out reflexively to grab as many of the others as he can to drag them all to safety.

His hands close on nothing. In a move that looks almost practiced, Black Bat and Batgirl each grab one of Ivy’s arms and simultaneously deploy their grapnel guns, using their lines to launch themselves and their captive clear of the danger zone. Red Robin does the same with the writhing mass of vines that contains Mr. Freeze. Nightwing belatedly remembers Scarecrow and snags a handy vine, dragging the restrained rogue along as he flees ground zero himself. The searing heat on his back tells him how close he cut it.

An inferno roars to life in their wake as they retreat deeper into the wooded park. Panting, Nightwing twists to stare at the sky as he lands beside the others. Sure enough, there’s Firefly, his wild laughter ringing through the air as he starts more fires throughout the park with his usual indiscriminate abandon.

“Oops,” Batgirl says, making a face as she watches him. She plants her hands on her hips and turns her head toward Black Bat. “Guess the timing was a little off, huh? I should’ve gotten here with Freeze like, five minutes later and it would’ve been perfect.”

“Good try,” Black Bat says with a philosophical shrug.

Nightwing raises an eyebrow, wondering what they’re talking about. “Timing?”

Red Robin turns to them, apparently picking up on their plan. “Wait, did you guys lead those two here on purpose?”

“Yep.” Batgirl rolls her eyes when Nightwing and Red Robin both turn to stare at her, judgement obvious. “Hey, it was a _great_ idea! We were going to set them against each other—it’s brilliant! Fire and ice should cancel each other out!”

“There are so many problems with that plan,” Red Robin mutters, looking incredibly done with everything, then gasps and clutches his vine-shrouded burden again. “Incoming!” They all retreat farther into the park, dragging their various disabled rogues along for the ride.

“Uh, I think Freeze is getting loose,” Nightwing says, eyeing Red Robin’s twitching vine bundle. As he watches, an armored hand clutching a freeze gun pokes out. He tenses.

“Oh, awesome!” Batgirl cheers, reaching over to grab the hand. Wrapping her own fingers over Freeze’s hand on the freeze gun, she crouches down and takes aim. Black Bat quietly adjusts her aim a touch to the right. Batgirl grins her appreciation, then fires.

It’s a direct hit. Firefly drops out of the sky like a rock, encased in ice from the shoulders down and cursing in helpless fury.

“Ha!” Batgirl crows, leaping to her feet and pumping her fist in the air. “It totally worked! Go team!” She raises her hands with an expectant grin and Red Robin and Black Bat both immediately high five her. The gesture looks natural, like they’ve teamed up so often they don’t even have to think about it.

Nightwing just watches, wondering when they all got so comfortable working together. It’s great that they’re a real team and seem to have fun—it is. That knowledge doesn’t do anything about the sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, though.

He pushes the thought away and focuses on their surroundings, then frowns. “Is that…?” He goes still, listening.

The others turn to look at him, gazes questioning. A moment later, the voice he thought he heard speaks again. “Get back here so I can apprehend you, ruffian!” It’s definitely Robin, and he sounds furious.

Which… is a pretty normal state of being for Robin, but it’s still mildly worrying.

“What? No, that’s not how this _works!”_ And that’s almost certainly the Riddler. He sounds out of breath, his voice practically a wail as he runs into the clearing from the east and looks back over his shoulder. That doesn’t work out so well for him and he almost trips, barely managing to catch himself. “You’re supposed to follow the clues, and come find me at the place of my choosing, not sneak up on me in my hideout before I even finish setting all my riddles! You’re supposed to play the game!”

“I have no patience for your trivial _games,”_ Robin sneers, closing the distance between them and swinging his gleaming katana in a menacing arc.

The Riddler shrieks and dodges. “Help!” Panting, he scans the clearing. When he spots them, he sighs and visibly relaxes. “Oh thank goodness, it’s you.” He changes course and races toward them, arms outstretched in supplication. “Save me from the feral one! He has a _sword!_ Since when does a Robin carry a _sword?”_ He runs straight into the cuffs Red Robin is holding out and willingly allows himself to be bound.

“Well, that was easier than usual,” Batgirl says, eyeing the rogue with bemusement.

Riddler makes a face. _“That_ was a travesty. Riddles used to _mean_ something! Why, in _my_ day—”

“I would’ve solved your riddles,” Red Robin says in a soothing voice as he clicks the cuffs into place.

“That’s why you were always my favorite,” Riddler sighs, then yelps and recoils as Robin catches up and brandishes the katana in his face. He cringes and ducks behind Batgirl, eyeing the katana warily. “You can’t hurt me now! I gave myself up!”

“Coward,” Robin snarls. “This is unbearably dull. Will no one stand and fight me like a man?” He looks at each of the bound rogues at their feet as though hoping one of them will spontaneously spring up and give him the battle he craves.

It doesn’t escape Nightwing’s notice that Red Robin eyes him with caution and then edges away a small distance. Well, apparently not _all_ his siblings have worked through their relationship issues while he wasn’t looking. He feels a twinge of guilty relief, then hates himself for it. He should be glad everyone’s getting along for the most part. He _is._ Just…

He wishes he could be part of it.

A cold feeling settles in his chest as he watches Damian bicker in an almost amiable manner with the others. It’s obvious he’s comfortable with them, way more than he was six months ago when Bruce came back from his unplanned jaunt through time. It’s good, really. But he hasn’t looked Nightwing’s way even once tonight. That hurts.

After all, it hasn’t been that long since they were partners.

Clearly, Robin still hasn’t forgiven him for leaving, even though it was the only thing to do. He had to step aside to give Bruce a chance to bond with his son. He never thought he’d lose his own bond with Damian in the process, though.

He doesn’t have time to analyze it any further because at that moment, a loud explosion rises above the general din. It’s closely followed by an angry-sounding roar and a familiar voice getting steadily louder. Soon, it’s possible to discern words.

“Fuck, fuck, FUCK! That did _not_ go according to plan!” A second later, Red Hood bursts out of the foliage to the west and sprints across the clearing. His leather jacket is torn half-off his left shoulder and deep rents in his jeans expose the body armor underneath. He’s soaking wet—hopefully with water—and his helmet is missing, although his domino is intact.

Not two seconds behind him, Killer Croc charges in pursuit, roaring and visibly gaining on him. His torso is suspiciously blackened, as though he was at the center of a minor explosion. Tiny red shards bearing a close resemblance to fragments of Red Hood’s helmet shed from his shoulders as he runs.

“Seriously?” Red Robin sounds supremely unimpressed. “You blew up _another_ helmet?”

“Is… your helmet a _bomb?”_ Batgirl says, looking like she can’t decide between horrified and impressed. She continues to stare at Red Hood as she reaches out and grabs Robin by the scruff right before he attempts to launch himself at Killer Croc, katana first.

“Unhand me, wench!” He twists in her grasp, snarling.

“Nope, I’m not explaining to B that we let Croc turn you into sushi.” She eyes the flashing katana and makes a face. “Or, uh, the other way around.”

Red Robin sighs, ignoring Batgirl’s struggles to contain a snarling, cursing Robin. “His helmet is definitely a bomb.” He retrieves a wicked-looking syringe from his bandoliers and eyes the approaching figures. He’s clearly working out a plan—but Nightwing’s always been the fastest at thinking on his feet, and Red Hood doesn’t have much time.

“Yoink!” Nightwing grabs the syringe from a shocked Red Robin’s hand and then dives forward, timing his leap so he lands directly on Killer Croc’s shoulders. The enraged rogue roars even louder, skidding to a halt and pawing at him in a desperate effort to dislodge him.

Black Bat appears out of nowhere, striking at pressure points and drawing Croc’s attention long enough for Nightwing to stab the syringe into the thick muscles of the man’s neck and depress the plunger. Just in time, because Croc bucks wildly and manages to get a grip on him, flinging him across the clearing with brutal force.

_Ouch._

He grunts as he crashes, his landing fortunately cushioned by some of the vines that are still piled around the clearing. It takes a moment for him to recover—Croc is _strong,_ and getting hit by him feels like taking a sledgehammer to everywhere _._ His gaze flies back to the fight, where Red Robin and Batgirl have joined Black Bat and are slowly bearing a drowsy-looking Croc to the ground under the force of their combined weight. Robin crouches atop the rogue’s shoulders, grinning in fierce pride.

Red Hood is eyeing them all from nearby, arms crossed in a sulk. “I totally had that,” he mutters.

“You sure did,” Batgirl says in her most encouraging voice as Red Robin snickers. Red Hood glares but doesn’t even threaten to shoot any of them. They all seem to be getting along so well. It’s great to see.

Really.

“Ow,” Nightwing mutters, wincing as he stretches a bit to check the status of his ribs. Bruised, maybe, but not broken. Well, it could be worse. He takes a deep breath, then freezes as he feels a sharp stab of pain in his neck. What…?

He smacks his hand on the spot, expecting to find an insect or maybe a thorn. These are Ivy’s plants, after all. Instead, his hand slaps down on—another hand? Jerking in shock and yanking on the hand, Nightwing sees familiar loose burlap gloves over long, claw-like fingers. “Oh no,” he whispers.

Clutched in Scarecrow’s hand is an empty syringe.

Well, shit.

As the edges of his vision start to dim, he thinks he sees Red Robin turn to look at him with a frown. Then a shadow falls over him, and he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Nightwing, moping over not being close to his siblings these days:** “Where did it all go wrong?”  
>  **Scarecrow, confused:** “Are you talking to me?”  
>  **Nightwing:** *Rolls his eyes* “Not EVERYTHING is about you!” *Attempts to apprehend Scarecrow, ends up chasing him through the park where everything goes horribly, hilariously wrong*  
>  **Poison Ivy, cackling gleefully:** “Get them, babies!” *Launches several tons of animated plant matter to crush them with its bulk*  
>  **Nightwing, barely dodging:** “Oh my god” *Spots Red Robin flailing weakly in the vines* “Oh my GOD”  
>  **Red Robin, gagging on vines:** “Don’t worry, I got this” *Disappears into the writhing mass of vines, shows no signs of having got this*  
>  **Nightwing:** “Uh…” *Yelps in shock and dives to the side just in time to avoid plummeting fireball*  
>  **Batgirl and Black Bat, emerging from fireball with Firefly and Mr. Freeze in a headlock:** “Whee!”  
>  **Red Hood, bursting out of nearby manhole, shaking his boot to try to dislodge Killer Croc:** “Get him off get him off get him off—”  
>  **Nightwing, attempting to help:** “It’s no use, he’s locked his jaws!” *Is kicked onto nearby pile of vines for his troubles*  
>  **Robin, appearing out of nowhere:** “Take THAT, brigands!” *Throws the Riddler at Killer Croc, who reflexively lets go of Red Hood to snap at the Riddler*  
>  **Riddler:** *Screams like a terrified squirrel as he flies through the air, clutches gratefully at Red Robin when he catches him instead of allowing him to plummet into Killer Croc’s waiting jaws* “THANK Y—oh.” *Pouts as Red Robin cuffs him*  
>  **All the Bats but Nightwing:** *High five and cheer*  
>  **Nightwing, still lying forgotten on pile of vines:** *Pouts, feels sadder and more left out than ever*  
>  **Pile of vines:** *Parts to reveal a lurking, grinning Scarecrow, who takes advantage of the distraction to stab Nightwing in the throat with a syringe full of fear*  
>  **Nightwing, staring at empty syringe:** “Well that’s not good” *Blacks out*


	2. Chapter 2

Red Robin glances across the clearing, noting the position of each rogue and ally and keeping an eye out for more stragglers. All the action tonight seems to be converging in Robinson Park for whatever reason, so there’s not much that would surprise him at this point. Actually, he’s half expecting another rogue or three to come bursting out of the shrubbery. He eyes the shrubbery with suspicion for a long moment, then relaxes when nothing happens.

He allows himself an internal sigh of relief that things finally seem to be settling down. Now, if he can just slip away without catching anyone’s eye, maybe he’ll actually manage to get back to his base in time to deal with his little problem. The one he’s been trying to ignore ever since Ivy managed to wrap him in her vines and a pollen pod burst right in front of his unprotected face. Rebreathers don’t do much against contact pollen, as it turns out.

As he plans his escape, his gaze settles on the pile of vines where Nightwing landed after Killer Croc threw him like a floppy, person-shaped football. He frowns.

Nightwing isn’t getting up.

Red Robin waits for a few seconds, fully expecting Nightwing to shake it off and spring into action. He was moving around a minute ago, after all—Red Robin checked, as soon as he saw Croc throw him. If it had seemed like Nightwing was unconscious or seriously injured, he would’ve gone over there to render first aid and left Black Bat and the others to finish the take down.

Nightwing’s still not moving. Anxiety knots his stomach as he starts making his way across the clearing. He really needs to get back to base. The pollen is already having an effect, pre-exposure treatments and antidotes be damned—he’s sweating, his heart rate is elevated, and the situation in his jock is rapidly progressing from awkward to downright painful.

The antidotes must have been at least partially effective, or he’d be a lot worse off by now. At least his mental faculties seem to be intact. One of the most horrifying aspects of Ivy’s pollen is the way the drugs reduce inhibitions, disrupting rational thought and reducing the victim’s ability to consider consequences or make informed decisions. In combination with the other common effects such as physical arousal that progresses to the point of pain when not satiated, well, it’s a formula for disaster. He’s incredibly lucky the antidotes he took countered the mental effects, really. He doesn’t even want to think about how this fight might’ve gone, otherwise.

That’s not much comfort when he’s trying to suppress the remaining effects long enough so he can deal with this uncomfortable situation in privacy instead of with a large, boisterous audience. The last thing he needs is Batgirl teasing him while he’s stuck in the quarantine cell in the Batcave. Red Hood would never let him live it down. He doesn’t even want to think about Robin’s probable reaction.

Red Robin considers for another moment, then begins moving toward Nightwing. He’ll never hesitate to help him, no matter what. Anyway, maybe he can still pull this off? He’ll just check on Nightwing, give him first aid if needed, and hand him off to one of the others. And then, he’ll slip away. The last thing he wants is to stay where he isn’t wanted, after all. 

If there’s one thing Nightwing made devastatingly clear last year, it’s that Tim’s not wanted anymore. Maybe, he never was. He swallows, hating the way his throat still tightens at the thought of that painful truth.

Red Robin has only just started moving when a silent shadow materializes over Nightwing’s motionless form. He tenses, then sees it’s just Batman. “B,” he nods in greeting.

Batman crouches beside Nightwing, one hand at his throat to check his pulse. His other hand is gripping what looks like—oh, hell. It’s Scarecrow’s hand, emerging from the nest of vines with what looks horribly like an empty syringe still clutched in his fingers. Red Robin’s throat goes dry.

“Well, fuck,” Red Hood says, eloquently summing up what all of them are probably feeling at the sight.

Nightwing has almost certainly been injected with liquid fear. Suddenly, the situation feels a whole lot more urgent.

Batman turns to Red Robin. “Take him back to the Cave,” he orders, and Red Robin doesn’t even try to argue his way out of it. There’s no way of knowing what formulation of liquid fear Scarecrow had in that syringe. There are a whole host of potential consequences to worry about, ranging from mild to downright lethal. If his heart rate starts to climb, or the drug induces paranoia and violent outbursts—

He forces himself to act, even as his mind races to come up with plans and contingencies for every possible permutation of symptoms Nightwing might manifest on the way back to the Cave. This absolutely takes priority over his own insecurities and embarrassment. He nods and begins to move forward, his mind already pruning off some of the least likely pathways so he can focus on the most probable outcomes.

At least Nightwing probably dosed himself with fear gas antidote prior to engaging—that’s standard procedure for anyone facing off against Scarecrow. Still, it won’t help much against a new formula. Which he’s starting to suspect this is, judging by the way Nightwing is frozen in place now, gaze fixed on some point far above their heads. His lips work soundlessly, forming the word _no_ while he reaches out a trembling hand as though trying to grasp something… or someone _._

Yeah, he’d better hurry. He and Nightwing are both working against the clock now.

A loud snort from behind him draws his attention back to the others. Turning, he sees Red Hood shaking his head and glaring at Batman with open derision. “Seriously, old man? Guess what you said all this time is true. You really _don’t_ have any favorites.”

Batman frowns, tilting his head a fraction in Hood’s direction. “Of course I don’t favor any of you above the others,” he says, looking like a man who knows he’s edging out onto a minefield.

Red Hood stretches his lips in a cruel grin. “I see that now. I mean, you fuckin’ _must_ hate all of us equally if you’re willing to pull this shit on Goldie and the replacement.”

Batman just stares at him, clearly not sure what he means and just as obviously unwilling to ask for clarification.

“You mean you didn’t notice? World’s greatest detective, my fine ass.” Red Hood rolls his eyes. “Little Red’s been hit, by pollen is my guess. You send these two away together now, one high on sex pollen and the other on liquid fear, well, whatever happens, it ain’t gonna be fucking pretty.” His lips twist.

Red Robin tenses. Well damn, apparently someone did notice.

“Holy shit,” Batgirl mutters. “Yeah, that kinda does sound like a recipe for disaster.” At her side, Black Bat doesn’t react to Red Hood’s announcement at all.

Red Robin eyes her for a long moment, wondering if she noticed his condition as well, or if she was too focused on the various rogues to catch whatever microexpression or posture gave him away to Red Hood. As he watches, Black Bat’s head slowly pivots in his direction and she smirks.

Yeah, okay, she probably knew. He gives a mental shrug—it’s not like he ever had much hope of hiding his condition from her, of all people. He’d just hoped she wouldn’t consider it worth mentioning, at least not until later.

Robin scoffs from his position still crouched atop Killer Croc. “Of course Red Robin allowed himself to be compromised by pollen and failed to reveal the consequences of his weakness, despite the resulting risk to his allies. Father, you should not trust him with Nightwing’s safety— _mmph!”_ His voice goes muffled as Batgirl casually covers his mouth. Glaring in outrage, he shoves her hand off, then goes still as Black Bat whispers something in his ear. Still scowling, he subsides with a nod.

Red Robin watches in fascinated awe, wondering how in the world they manage to get that close to the demon brat without being bitten. He’s pretty sure he’d lose fingers if he tried that.

Batman barely blinks at the byplay. Turning to address Red Robin, he continues to instruct him as though there was no interruption. “Red Hood will accompany you back to the Cave—”

“Oy, you can’t tell me what to do—” Red Hood blusters, scowling. He opens his mouth again, probably about to release a blistering stream of invective. A soft whimper cuts through the tension in the clearing and he freezes, gaze snapping back to Nightwing.

Everyone follows his gaze to stare in horror at Nightwing, who is now curled into a tight ball, his broad shoulders shaking as he whispers the word “no” over and over again. Red Robin’s anxiety ratchets up another notch as he catches the near-silent rapid breathing and sees the minute tremble of his fingers.

The fear is already taking effect.

Red Robin winces at the visceral sound and sight. No matter the distance between them, the disappointments and betrayals that unravelled the bond he once believed they had, he never wants to see Nightwing hurting like this.

Apparently, neither does Red Hood. Still grumbling under his breath, the man stalks forward and hefts Nightwing to his feet without any ceremony, dropping down to get a shoulder under his left arm. “I’m not doin’ this for you,” he gruffly informs a silent Batman before turning his back on him to eye Red Robin expectantly. “C’mon, shorty, get in here. And if you start humpin’ anyone’s leg on the way, Imma take pictures for the groupchat before tranqing you.”

Rolling his eyes, Red Robin tucks himself under Nightwing’s other arm and the three of them set off. Behind them, the others move to secure and apprehend the various defeated villains. “You suck,” he says mildly. “And if you take any pictures like that, I’m going to share the ones I have from that time the mage got the drop on us and you were magically transformed into a Fennec fox for a week.”

“Wait, what? No way you got any pictures of that—after all, _you_ were transformed into a goddamn literal featherhead the whole time. I don’t remember you having any opposable thumbs to take blackmail pics with.”

“Excuse you, I was a long-tailed duck, and I absolutely could have worked out a way to operate a camera using my beak. But as it happens, I didn’t need to. Once we figured out how to make it through the security and got into my safe house, there was plenty of security footage. I got a _lot_ of great stills from it later, especially you trying to figure out how to open the fridge, and cook, and use the sink—”

“Shut up, I hate you. Also,” Red Hood eyes the semi-conscious man between them and frowns. “Any ideas about how we’re gonna get him back to the Cave? I doubt he’s up for any flying right now.”

Red Robin glances down at Nightwing and bites his lip as he notes the sweat gathered on his furrowed brow and the way he’s saying something under his breath, too soft to make out any phrases. They’d better hurry. “My car is only a block away.”

“Oh thank fuck, there’s no way I’d ask the old man to let me borrow the Batmobile, but I have no goddamn idea how I was gonna lug the pair of you back to the Cave on my motorcycle. Pretty sure strapping you to the handlebars wouldn’t fly.”

Yeah, that was never going to happen. Red Robin snorts at the involuntary mental image, then glances at Nightwing again. He’s frowning and murmuring, loud enough to be almost intelligible now. It sounds like he’s pleading with someone. His face twists and there’s a helpless note in his voice that makes something in Red Robin’s chest ache. Dick isn’t supposed to ever sound or look like that.

At least he isn’t fighting them. Yet. All too often, Scarecrow’s concoctions send victims into a fear-driven fight response that can be downright deadly, both for the victim and anyone unlucky enough to encounter them. If they’re very fortunate, they’ll make it back to the Cave without having to tranq him. That’s a last resort when dealing with an unknown drug like this. It’s never possible to predict every potential drug interaction, and anything they give him increases the chances he’ll have a negative reaction or side effects.

Red Robin grimaces at the thought of going to the Cave. Stupid Red Hood and his stupid big mouth, outing him like that—there’s no way Alfred’s going to let him leave after dropping off Nightwing, not now that everyone knows he’s been pollinated.

He’s tried so hard to keep his distance, not wanting to impose his presence somewhere he isn’t welcome. Maybe never was, come to think of it. After all, it’s not like he gave Bruce much of a choice, back when he first put on the suit. Everything that happened after that—training to be Robin, trainsurfing with Dick, even the damn cookies with Alfred—might have been them making the best of the situation he put them in.

That’s definitely how it seemed a year ago, when he walked down there to find Damian in his suit. Nothing that’s happened since then has really shaken that impression.

He really doesn’t want to know for sure. If he just avoids the Cave as much as possible and only interacts with everyone when he has to for work or the mission, it’s kind of like Schrödinger’s family. He never has to know for sure if they think of him as part of the family, or that weird neighbor kid who invited himself in and then overstayed his welcome by about six years.

Red Robin sighs. He’d rather not risk experiencing another brutal, soul-searing rejection. His avoidance strategy has worked out pretty darn well so far. It helps that he has his friends—the Titans, plus Steph and Cass and even Jason to hang out with when he’s in Gotham. They can all relate to the complex tangle of love, duty, and disappointment that ties the Bats together.

Well, there’s no helping it now. He’ll just have to go in there, and deal with the fallout. Get the medical treatment he needs for them not to consider him a risk on the streets, then get out. Hopefully, before Dick even wakes up. He winces, his heart giving another twinge at the thought of having it proven once again how low he is on Dick’s priority list. Maybe he’s on there, maybe he isn’t—it’s just, he’s pretty sure based on evidence that there are a whole slew of people and things that land way higher than him. 

“Why are you being so quiet?” Red Hood asks suddenly, eyeing him in a wary manner. “Are you succumbing to the pollen? Fuck, you’re succumbing to the goddamn pollen, aren’t you?”

Red Robin just stares at him, his mouth falling open in surprise because that is literally the furthest thing from his thoughts right now.

“Goddamnit,” Red Hood swears, then pauses to lean his half of a quiet, trembling Nightwing up against the wall with a gentle care at odds with his tone. They really have lucked out so far. The liquid fear isn’t causing near as violent a reaction as he’d feared it might. “Hold on, lemme get my phone out. Fuckin’ Croc, making me blow up my helmet—the footage on that thing woulda been so much higher quality.”

“What are you even talking about right now?” Red Robin buckles slightly as he ends up taking more of Nightwing’s weight when Red Hood lets go. “Why do you need your phone for footage—oh my god, you’re _really_ stopping right now to try to get blackmail footage of me? I thought you were joking.” He glares at Red Hood, who is now holding up his phone and staring at him with an expectant grin.

“C’mon, replacement—if _I_ started humpin’ the walls, hopped up on pollen or whatever, tell me you wouldn’t do the same. Do it. I’ll know you’re lying your skinny little ass off.”

He lifts his chin and lies with dignity. “Of course I wouldn’t.” He’d document the hell out of that and then sell the pictures to Arsenal and Starfire. Rolling his eyes, he starts moving forward again, carrying most of Nightwing’s weight and silently cursing Red Hood for being a lazy bastard. “Anyway, you’re not getting any blackmail footage on me out of this. I’m pretty sure the mental effects are being cancelled out by the antidote I took, and the physical effects are minor enough to ignore. If it gets really bad, I’m just going to knock myself out and then you have to deal with dragging both of us back to the Cave.” He snickers at the appalled look on Red Hood’s face.

“You little shit, you’d totally do it, too,” Red Hood says with what sounds like reluctant appreciation. He finally puts the phone away and slides his arm under Nightwing’s again to help. As the Redbird comes into sight, he brightens. “Hey, you _sure_ you aren’t feelin’ the pollen yet? Maybe you should knock yourself out, just in case. As a preventative measure.”

“You’re totally just saying that because you want to drive my car.”

“Fuck yeah I am.”

“And the answer is, _hell_ no. We— _damn it._ ” Red Robin breaks off as Nightwing suddenly cries out and convulses. “I knew this was going too well so far.” He urges Red Hood to move faster and unlocks his car, wishing he could close his ears to whatever secrets Nightwing is about to spill in his vulnerable state. There’s no way he’d want them to see him like this. Heck, he wouldn’t want anyone to see him like this.

“No! Jason, come back!” Nightwing cries, trying to pull free from their restraining grips. _“No!”_ A heart wrenching sob rips from him and his knees give out, their arms around him the only thing holding him up.

“Shit,” Red Robin whispers. It’s all too easy to imagine what he’s seeing right now.

Red Hood is silent and pale, probably lost in his own memories as they both try not to think about the hellish experiences Nightwing is almost certainly reliving.

“Here, let’s get him in the car,” Red Robin says, opening the passenger door and putting the seat back all the way before helping his companions into the vehicle. Maybe he should have included a backseat with this version of the Redbird. Oh well.

“Joker, no—” Nightwing whispers, causing Red Hood to go very still and Red Robin to tense. There’s no way this car ride is going to be anything but awful, he just knows it.

As he slides into the driver’s seat and settles his hands at the wheel, he goes over the plan again. Get Nightwing back to the Cave, stay just long enough to be sure the antidotes are effective—both for his own condition, and Nightwing’s—then take off before the other man wakes up, thus neatly avoiding confrontation outside the masks and any awkward dialogue during which Dick feels obliged to pretend to give a shit about him.

Looking at Red Hood, who’s sitting tense in the passenger seat and holding Nightwing as gingerly as though he were a ticking bomb, he’s pretty sure he has the exact same plan. His issues with the Cave run even deeper than Red Robin’s. Everyone will be better off avoiding the inevitable shouting and potential fallout if they stick around.

Bailing as soon as possible is definitely the right choice.

Things are fine this way. They _are._ So why does his chest ache?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Batman, arriving to find Nightwing suffering the effects of fear toxin:** “Red Robin, take Nightwing back to the Cave for treatment—”  
>  **Red Hood, unimpressed:** “Dude what kinda shitty dad are you, did you even NOTICE Red Robin’s hopped up on sex pollen?”  
>  **Batman:** “...” *Clears his throat, tries to pretend he totally noticed* “Red Hood, take Red Robin and Nightwing back to the Cave for treatment—”  
>  **Red Hood:** “You suck old man, I’m only doing this for the Alfred-cookies” *Scruffs both Red Robin and Nightwing, stalks away*  
>  **Red Robin, struggling free:** “Dude” *Tries to think of way to escape the Cave without confronting his own worst fears, fails* “Do you really think there’ll be Alfred-cookies?”  
>  **Red Hood, bumping shoulders with him:** “There are ALWAYS Alfred-cookies, little dude, it’s the only thing that makes the Cave even remotely livable”  
>  **Red Robin, brightening slightly:** “Yay!” *Begins to wonder if things might not be so bad after all*  
>  **Nightwing, immediately reminding him that things are definitely that bad:** *Releases blood-curdling scream, begins to relive all the most horrific events of their lives right in front of them with bonus narration*  
>  **Red Hood and Red Robin, throwing Nightwing into car and flooring it as he continues to babble his way through their tragic past:** “Omg this sucks”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning this chapter for brief references to various canonical traumatic events, including: minor character death, non consensual sex, non consensual medical procedures, and all the other horrible things that have happened to Dick Grayson over eighty years of comic history.
> 
> Quotes this chapter adapted from Nightwing Vol. 2 #101, Joker’s Last Laugh #6, Nightwing Vol. 2 #93

Dick tries not to shake as he stares at his parents’ bodies, lying crumpled together where they fell. Their staring eyes and the unnatural splay of their limbs like broken dolls aren’t real, they can’t be real, but then why aren’t they getting up? The pool of dark blood beneath them is gradually spreading, inching its way toward him and he can’t move, he can’t _move_. They’re still holding hands, never let go of each other even as they fell to their deaths. His throat closes on a silent, muffled sob as grief grips his heart and sinks its claws deep.

His head swims and he drags his gaze away from his parents, trying with growing desperation to find something else to focus on. This can’t be happening. It can’t. So, what’s going on?

The vivid red of their costumes, the crowd’s screams in the background, the terrible, meaty _thud_ of their beloved bodies impacting the ground he can still hear resonating in his ears like a nightmare on repeat—it all feels so real. So much more real than the gathered vigilantes or the vine-entangled villain beneath him, which have all faded from his perception until they are little more than vague impressions with the hazy quality of a half-forgotten dream.

He just watched his parents fall and die again. Helpless to do anything to save them, again. The broken trapeze creaks softly as it sways back and forth overhead, suspended from the darkness like a pendulum marking the time.

His parents aren’t moving. He watches as a dark stain seeps through his mom’s brilliant auburn hair.

They’re dead. Never going to hold him again, laugh with him and tell jokes and listen to him while he babbles on about his day, sing him to sleep and comfort him when he cries… Another sob wracks his body, so harsh it’s painful. He welcomes it, wants to feel something, anything that isn’t this gnawing sense of grief and loss and loneliness that feels terrifyingly as though it will go on forever.

“Oh god no, oh no, no no no no—” He’s not sure if he’s actually talking, or if the voice begging this not to be true is just in his head.

He can’t tear his gaze away from the terrible sight, his heart clenching in horror as desolation crushes him and tears well unbidden in his eyes. The pain goes on and _on_ , building until he thinks he’s going to start to scream—or maybe he’s already screaming—and then his field of view is abruptly blocked by… black and red?

Dick blinks, hazy and confused but welcoming any distraction from the stark grief and anguish of this endless loss.

Someone’s talking, familiar voices murmuring something he can’t quite make out. The voices evoke feelings of protectiveness and love with undertones of sorrow and regret. Guilt. He frowns.

A gentle voice is murmuring something in his ear and oh, he’s moving now. Gloved hands tug him to his feet and then arms on both sides are half-carrying him, half-leading him away from the despair and loss which dog his steps. Those hands are a reminder that what he’s seeing isn’t happening, and he clutches at them, gripping hard and holding on for sanity’s sake.

 _This isn’t real. Whatever I’m seeing right now, it isn’t really there,_ he tells himself, a litany he only half-believes.

As he walks, he tries not to see. But that’s Two Face coming at him, swinging a bat and laughing while Batman watches, helpless to intervene. A civilian dies because he made the wrong call, and he knows that he deserves every blow that lands on him after that. Dark feelings of guilt and inadequacy well up and overwhelm his better judgement. He deserves this beating.

 _I should have figured out it was a two-fold plan, I knew it was_ Two Face, _after all. I should have been better. No wonder Batman fired me. I deserved it after that mistake._

The hands pulling him forward pause for a brief moment, then resume tugging him onward as Two Face falls away behind them and then there’s a searing pain in his shoulder, Joker’s laughter resounding all around them because the villain shot him.

The pain in his body is nothing compared to the agony in his heart when Batman fires him again, permanently this time. Throws him away because he wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t _good_ enough. “Fine, I’ll say it again,” Batman snarls, face twisted in an expression of anger and disgust. “You’re _fired,_ Dick. Get out of my cave.”

_My home. This was my home. If I don’t have this, then what am I? Who am I? Am I even still family anymore? Was I ever?_

“If that’s the way you want it,” he whispers, pain and rejection coursing through him, “see you around.”

_Batman, don’t do this. Damn it. Damn it!_

Babs is a comfort, but then she’s shot, her wings forever broken, and things are never going to be the same between them again, not when every time she sees him they both know it’s a reminder that she will never fly again.

And now there’s another little boy in _his_ costume, wearing his family’s colors and answering to his mother’s name for him, laughing and somersaulting away only to disappear forever amidst ripping peals of chilling, insane laughter. “No! Jason, come back!” he cries, trying to follow, but of course he’s far too late. _“No!”_ A sob rips through him as he sees a fresh grave, his little brother’s name and too-short life etched into the cold stone, and his knees give out.

“Shit,” someone mutters. “Here, let’s get him in the car.”

Strong hands, gentle but firm, hold him back and keep him from collapsing to the ground. Dick pauses, knowing on some level these are also people he has to protect. Important…

He almost remembers, and then it slips away again. His eyes widen as the vision before him morphs, and now there’s a different boy in the Robin suit, but he’s missing. Kidnapped.

“Joker,” he breathes, the name a curse upon his lips.

The Joker is in front of him, crazed face gleaming with triumph, taunting him. “I’m sure Papa Bat is on the way. Imagine how mad he’ll be if I’ve whacked _two_ boy wonders on the same day!” And _no…_ He’s saying he killed Robin. Killed _Tim,_ just like he murdered _Jason._

“Oh, my baby brothers, Tim, Jason, _no.”_

_HELL no!_

The incandescent rage that burns through him in that moment sears away all his convictions and morals until nothing’s left but fury and the determination to end this threat once and for all. Too little, too late, now that _two_ of his precious little brothers have been stolen by this monster. _Jason, Tim, no! NO._

“All the deaths!” he snarls, backhanding the evil, snickering madman into the ground, where the horrible mockery of laughter finally stops. An expression of disbelief and something he doesn’t quite want to recognize as satisfaction blooms on that hated face as the rictus grin twists in shock. “All the pain! When is enough _enough,_ Joker?!” And he’s striking the body on the ground over and over again, blows driven by righteous rage and grief and remembrance.

His vision blurs. When it clears, he sees the Joker dead at his feet, Tim in the Robin suit staring at him over the body in horror and astonished disbelief.

Shame quenches what’s left of his rage, leaving him empty. He grabs his head. “What have I done? I killed the Joker!”

“Wait, fuckin’ _what?”_ A deep voice reaches him through the fugue. “He did _what?”_

A disembodied voice answers, “Now’s _really_ not the time, Jay. Oh my god, let go of the wheel you idiot, you’re going to get us all killed! I’ll tell you all about it later, holy shit I assumed you already knew. Shh, no, Nightwing, you’re okay. He’s not here, we’re not _there_ anymore!”

“He called us his brothers—do you really think…?” 

He tilts his head, tries to focus on those voices, but they elude him. He blinks, and reality shifts around him again leaving him sickeningly dizzy and disoriented, a growing sense of dread and fear the only constant from one scene to the next.

In front of him Tony Zucco steps out of prison a free man, and Bruce _lied_ to him, he _lied,_ and then Brother Blood is in his head and he’s pointing the laser canon at his teammates _oh god_ and this time he’s not stopping, he’s not _stopping—_

 _I don’t want to, I don’t_ want _to, I’m supposed to_ save _lives but I just keep failing!_

He’s not sure if he’s talking or if the broken voice confessing his many failings is just in his head, but it hurts all the same. Confessions he hasn’t made outside the privacy of his own mind spill out, broken open by whatever Scarecrow stabbed into his body.

“Breathe, ‘Wing. It’s okay, it’s gonna be okay. Fuck, he ain’t breathing. _Dickie!_ Just _breathe!”_ The desperate-sounding voice is distant, but he knows it, longs to answer. He inhales sharply, managing to fill his lungs with a single desperate, painful breath.

But now he’s seeing the nightmare mess of Trigun in Raven’s body, attacking Starfire at their wedding and planting the seeds that tore their relationship apart. Failed. He failed her.

_I never manage to keep anyone for long. My family, my friends, they never stay. Is it my fault?_

And she’s torn away, gone off to recover and heal without the reminder of him in her life. Another relationship broken, another love snuffed out. His pain is nothing in comparison to hers, so he just has to keep moving, and now he’s hearing a dead little girl in his apartment and there’s nothing he can give her but justice, and it’s not _enough._ He’s feeling the scorching heat of the fire as Haly’s Circus _burns_ around him, the screams of the dying in his ears, and he _can’t save everyone._ The bright, illuminated tent filled with fleeing bystanders and echoes of terrified shrieks loud in his ears is so horribly familiar, merging with memory and reminding him of when his parents, his _parents—_

 _Oh god no no no, I can’t, I_ can’t, _it’s too much!_

And now Blockbuster’s there, gloating and obscene in his malevolent certainty that he can destroy everything and everyone Dick loves. He’s bragging about people he’s killed just for talking to Dick, and he _knows who he really is._ He’s never going to _stop,_ he’s going to go after the _family_ next, and it’s all because Dick failed to save someone else, _again._

And Tarantula is lifting the gun and this time instead of stepping out of the way Dick’s hand wraps around hers, and he _helps her_ pull the trigger. He gags, choking on tears, and he’s on his back as she moves above him, sinuous in the pressing darkness. “Querido,” she whispers in a cruel facsimile of love, terrifying, sinking her claws into his sides while rain falls from the black sky and slides down his cheeks like blood, like tears.

 _I don’t want it, I don’t want_ you, _don’t do this,_ please _don’t do this…_

“No,” he tries, voice broken, already knowing it will be futile. “Don’t _touch_ me. I don’t want it.” He tries to twist away and doesn’t even manage more than a twitch, his exhausted, battered body pushed well past the point of endurance. 

Dimly, he’s aware that someone else is holding him, has gone still at his words. A strong grip tightens on his shoulder, the hand positioned to soothe, not to hold him down. Not like _her_.

“What the _fuck?”_ the person says in a harsh whisper. A rough hand smooths his hair off his forehead, clumsy but gentle. He sobs, twisting away from Tarantula and what she’s doing to press himself against the person he instinctively knows is safe and would never allow anyone to be harmed like that on his watch _._

“I told her _no,”_ he says in a quiet, plaintive voice, resigned. He hears a muttered, savage-sounding curse in stereo before he’s swept away again.

Now he’s dragging survivors out of what’s left of Blüdhaven’s ruin, forcing his arms to lift and his legs to move as long as he can until the radiation sickness finally brings him to his knees, broken and defeated in the wreckage of the city he swore to save, and it’s not _enough._ The pain in his body is no match for the agony of failing so many, so _many_ innocent lives. It’s never enough, _he’s_ never enough.

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry…_

And then he’s buried alive, and it’s not Raptor because Raptor’s _dead_ so someone else was the killer all along and he was wrong wrong _wrong_ again. How many people have died for his mistakes? He closes his eyes in the darkness, ready to give in and just, finally, go to sleep—surely he’s earned some rest by now?

Faintly, he hears the concerned voices again. “Did _you_ know about this?”

“Hell no, if I’d’ve known Dickie was ever buried alive, we woulda started a club already.”

“Oh my god, why are you _such_ an asshole—wait, I think he’s looking at us again. Dick, I know you’re in there. Just keep holding on, you can do this. We’re going to get you somewhere safe and take care of you—”

He listens to the voice in the darkness begging him to press on. It’s a voice he can’t fail, one he has to listen to. Someone who matters, someone so very precious. “Baby brothers,” he sighs, finally recognizing the voices.

At the soft, gentle murmurs that feel safe he opens his eyes again, and immediately realizes he shouldn’t have. Because he recognizes his surroundings as Arkham, and not the visitors’ areas. Dick is strapped down to a table and the International Club of Villains is planning to lobotomize him. He can’t move, the venom of the blue scorpion is too strong, but he can hear and he knows the so-called doctors with their tools are getting closer. He’s _screaming_ inside and this can’t be real, can it, because it didn’t get this far in real life before he escaped—

He fights it, battles the visions and sensations that feel so damn realistic, and is rewarded for his efforts by a strange dual awareness. For a moment, he can see both the walls of Arkham and the interior of what looks like the Redbird, the sports car seriously cramped with Red Robin, Red Hood and him all somehow stuffed into it. Can hear the fake doctors’ voices and Red Hood, hoarsely whispering in a gentle voice he usually only breaks out for comforting victims.

He focuses on that voice and hears a litany of reassurance and promises that he’s safe, he’s going to be fine, no one’s going to be allowed to hurt him. In the background, he can make out Red Robin, glancing over in worry as he tersely reports how many miles it is to the Cave.

Jason. Tim. Safety.

Recognition and the beginnings of hope flood his mind and he struggles to hold on to his knowledge of what’s real. To Red Hood, who’s clutching him so close, desperate voice hoarse from trying so hard to call him out of the nightmare that keeps dragging him back down.

But with that thought, a new wave of nightmare hallucinations sweeps reality away and now Red Hood is shooting Damian in the chest, ignoring Dick’s horrified cries, and then turning and stabbing Tim in the heart with a batarang. Watches, uncaring, as the smaller vigilante at his feet jerks and then stills, blood pooling on the filthy ground in the abandoned subway station that was his own bastardized version of the Batcave.

_Damian, Tim, Jason, no! Oh god no, NO!_

Gotham is tearing itself to pieces around them, the villains rising up and clawing each other apart for a piece of the pie now that Batman’s gone, and there’s nothing he can do. His family is falling _again_ , all his younger brothers are falling apart before his eyes and Bruce is gone and he’s frozen, he can do _nothing._ Again. How many times is he going to stand helpless and watch his family fall?

How many times, before he can’t drag himself off his knees again, scrape his shattered heart off the ground, and keep going? How many times, before he jumps and just—

Forgets how to fly.

Everything he tries seems to make things worse. He holds out his hand to save Jason and his brother stares at it, then shakes his head and lets himself fall from the train into the dark water below while Dick screams denial. He’s gone, he’s gone _again. “JASON!”_

_How many times?_

Everything’s falling apart. _He’s_ breaking, shaking apart under burdens that have long since grown too heavy to bear.

 _Not good enough, I’m not, I’m not_ enough, _have to be better, have to be_ perfect, _but I_ can’t—

“Fuck,” a voice murmurs, sounding wrecked. “I didn’t know…”

He takes Robin from Tim, wanting to show him it’s his turn to fly, but ends up pushing him out of the nest altogether. And Tim _falls._ Another beloved family member falls on his watch, and this time he’s the one who did the pushing.

As the scene plays out around him, he recognizes with a sickening sense of shock that it’s familiar, that he’s somehow repeated the exact same mistake Bruce made with him only this time he did it to Tim.

Every decision he can make is the wrong one, and he’s trapped, so overwhelmed, needs help, needs his family. He tries to stop Tim as he walks away. “I didn’t mean for you to _leave,_ Tim. Didn’t mean to push you away. I’m so _sorry.”_ But his pleas fall on deaf ears. Bruce comes back, takes Damian, and he’s alone in the end.

_I deserve to be alone. All I ever do is fail to live up to what’s needed from me._

“Just hold on, we’re almost there.” The voice in his ear sounds relieved and the grip on his waist is so tight, reassuring in its steadiness. He tries to cling to the sensations and sounds of what he’s almost sure is real life, but there’s a little homeless boy bleeding out in his arms after being shot because _he_ was gathering intel and now the kid’s dead, he’s _dead_ and it’s his fault.

_My fault, my fault, it was all my fault._

He sees his mom and dad again and it’s nothing like he wanted, it’s the worst kind of nightmare. Because he’s being attacked by his own and Tim’s parents, the Black Lantern’s power animating and corrupting them. It’s horrible and the only way to survive is to freeze themselves so there won’t be any signs of life for the Black Lanterns to target but now Tim’s not waking up, he’s _not waking up_.

_Oh no, Tim! Wake up, please wake up. I can’t lose you too. Please?_

He sobs, overwhelmed with too much loss and grief to hold it in any longer.

“I’m here, Dick, I’m right here. You’re okay, we’re both okay, we won’t leave you, I _swear…”_ The whispered promises sound like Tim, but he’s gone. He _left_ and Dick put Bruce in the Lazarus Pit because he wanted everything to be okay but that is _not_ Bruce, whatever came out of the Pit is _not him._ And he’s fighting with everything he has and it isn’t going to be _enough_ —

A sharp stab in his neck and he groans, searching for the new enemy, but…

The people clutching at him, no, half-supporting his weight, aren’t enemies. One’s tall and broad and muttering profanities in a familiar voice, his gentle, steady hands at odds with his gruff voice. The other is short and muscular and slim and just as familiar, a solid presence at his side that he’s missed more than he ever realized.

They’re still talking.

“He’s been carrying all this? How the fuck does he still put on that goddamn annoying smile?”

“I always knew he wore masks. Just… not this much.”

Red Hood and Red Robin. Safety he recognizes and knows, loves, down to his bones. The monsters from his memory fall mercifully silent around them, auditory hallucinations apparently laid to rest by whatever was in that syringe. He can still see the apparitions, but now he knows what’s real.

Some of the tension eases from his frame and he closes his eyes, shuddering, trusting his brothers to lead him the rest of the way to safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dick, tripping balls on fear gas:** “I see the abyss, and it’s coming for me” *Attempts to claw his way out of reality through the floor*  
>  **Red Robin, glancing over distractedly while driving the car:** “Holy shit Jason, don’t let him do that it’s bad for his nails”  
>  **Red Hood, helping Dick back onto the seat and grumbling:** “Next time I’m driving and YOU’RE dealing with this mess”  
>  **Dick, weeping:** “Tim and Jason, my precious baby brothers whom I’d die for! They’re suffering, ZOMG nooooo!!!”  
>  **Red Hood and Red Robin, panicking:** “Omg what? Wait, WHAT?” *Frown* “It’s just the fear talking, he’s probably just thinking about Damian, surely he doesn’t REALLY love and value us…”  
>  **Dick, tears pouring down his cheeks:** “I love and value my family beyond anything, ESPECIALLY my beloved baby brothers Jason Peter Todd and Timothy Jackson Drake, Wayne optional”  
>  **Red Hood and Red Robin:** “Uh…” *Cough awkwardly* “Huh. Damn, guess we really called THAT one wrong”  
> 


	4. Chapter 4

Batman flings open the door and leaps out before the Batmobile even quite stops moving, trusting the autopilot to finish parking the vehicle correctly. He’s already halfway across the Cave by the time the engine cuts out, his gaze fixed on the medical bay and the still forms resting therein.

His eyes narrow as he approaches. No, they’re not entirely still—in Quarantine Cell A, Tim is sitting cross-legged on the cot, busily typing away on a tablet and snacking on a plate of cookies. Alfred must have taken pity on him and given him the cookies, as well as access to the network.

Well, considering the glass isn’t in frosted mode for modesty’s sake, it’s unlikely the pollen is affecting Tim severely. Batman releases a quiet breath of relief. It’s generally difficult to make eye contact with anyone for quite some time after Ivy manages to hit one of them with her damnably potent aphrodisiacs. Try as they might, it’s impossible to quickly set aside the discomfort and awkwardness of those moments.

Of course, they’re all sufficiently skilled and disciplined to avoid or mitigate the pollen’s effects before anything more untoward than untimely physical reactions occurs. He doesn’t even want to imagine how much worse it might be, otherwise. This is bad enough.

Batman shudders, remembering the first time Dick was unfortunate enough to be exposed to one of Ivy’s pollens. She had been highly apologetic and regretful, considering the lad was only fifteen at the time, and promised them the toxin wouldn’t reach full potency because her compounds were always designed to target adults, not children. Physiologically, it simply wouldn’t have the same effect.

No, in Dick’s case, the drug merely caused him to babble incessantly about his many crushes. Far too many, in Batman’s opinion. Why couldn’t puberty have hit at a more reasonable age, like thirty? Under the influence of the pollen, Dick was honest to a distressing degree and provided more enthusiastic, appreciative detail than Batman ever wanted to hear about Barbara’s legs, Wallace’s smile, Garth’s eyes, Koriander’s hair, Roy’s arms, and—most upsetting of all—Clark’s hands.

He winces, still itching to reach for the Kryptonite at the very thought of _that_ ever happening. Shaking his head and brushing aside the memories as irrelevant, he turns away from quarantine without disturbing Tim and heads over to the main medical area to check on Dick. His step quickens as he nears the occupied cot, burgeoning worry causing his chest to tighten. Fear gas is far more dangerous than pollen. Surely Alfred would have told him when he checked in over the comms, if anything had happened…?

His concerns ease somewhat as he draws near enough to see Dick, who appears to be resting peacefully. He is not restrained, indicating the episode never escalated to violence. That matches what Batman overheard on the comms as Red Hood and Red Robin escorted him back to the Cave. His tension ratchets down another notch at that confirmation.

The steady beeping of the monitors and normal ranges displayed on each of the screens surrounding the cot work to further reassure him. He studies each readout with meticulous care before allowing himself to collapse into the chair pulled up next to the cot.

It’s warm.

Frowning, Batman turns and searches the Cave. He left Robin with Batgirl and Black Bat, with orders to run one last sweep of the city and round up any stray D-listers they might come across. All of the most dangerous rogues are back in custody already, and he seriously doubts any of his partners have much to fear from the likes of Condiment Man.

Alfred is upstairs, preparing Dick’s and Tim’s rooms because apparently it has been quite some time since either of them stayed the night at Wayne Manor—and how did Batman miss that? He’s supposed to be a detective, damn it all. He should notice when any of his children avoid coming home for six damn months. That thought nags at him, and he weighs it for a moment before setting it aside. Time enough to blame himself for that particular failure later. Right now, Dick’s wellbeing is his most urgent concern.

The possibility of an unauthorized incursion into the Cave puts all of them at risk, but Dick is especially vulnerable. Right now, he wouldn’t be able to walk, let alone defend himself.

So, why is the seat warm? It’s cold enough down here that any warmth left over from Alfred should have fled by the time Batman sat down. He turns back to the quarantine cells, wondering with a trace of amusement if perhaps Tim figured out how to break out of the quarantine cell and got the tablet for himself. He might have checked on Dick and sat with him briefly before scurrying back to his cell when he heard the Batmobile approaching.

It wouldn’t surprise him in the slightest. For all that Tim appears to be the mildest of his various children, he is surprisingly devious and quite skilled at hiding that fact.

His eyebrows lift marginally in surprise at what he sees when his searching gaze reaches quarantine. Instead of Tim reading alone, he spots Jason, who is sprawled at ease with his boots stretched out in front of him. He’s leaning back against the clear glass wall of Tim’s cell with a plate of cookies resting on the floor to one side. Behind him, Tim is still typing away, pausing every so often to say something. Bruce eyes them for a moment, attempting to listen to their dialogue.

Neither seems concerned at his presence, although they must be aware he’s listening. It’s entirely possible they simply don’t care, too absorbed in their task to pay attention to anything else.

“Fiores, Catalina—I’m ninety percent sure, anyway, based on where that hallucination fell in the sequence,” Tim is saying, clearly reading something from the screen of his tablet. “He seemed to be remembering events in chronological order for the most part.”

Unbidden, Batman’s mind provides a surge of details regarding Catalina Fiores, from her date of birth to the woman’s ill-fated run as Tarantula. Why are they talking about her? Frowning, he scans back through his memories of Dick’s voice reliving his most painful memories. Blockbuster’s death made an appearance, he’s sure. And after that…

His mind shies away from what happened after that. This is Dick, the smiling, bouncing child who was the first to bring light to his darkness. Surely, he never had to endure _that._ He must have misunderstood.

“Awesome. So where’s she at now?” Jason runs idle one hand over his thigh holster, the depth of his emotions betrayed only by the hard look in his eyes and the tension in his shoulders. His fingernails, varnished a deep, dark red, catch Bruce’s eye, and he wonders how long it’s been since he saw his son’s bare hands.

Tim snorts, raising his eyes to stare in obvious disbelief at the back of Jason’s head. “You really think I’m just going to tell you that?” he says, waving an indignant hand. “If you run off and kill her with information I gave you, I’m at least somewhat morally responsible for her death too.” He pointedly avoids glancing in Batman’s direction as he speaks.

Batman can’t suppress the wave of suspicion rising within him—would Tim’s words have been different if he hadn’t known he was watching?—and hates the fact that he has to wonder. Once, he would have had more confidence in his third son, but that was before the Captain Boomerang debacle. Before Tim spent a year doing god knows what with Ra’s al Ghul and the League of Assassins, of all people, while Batman was lost in time. Well before the young man planned and executed a calculated murder, only stopping himself from killing his father’s murderer at the last moment. He’ll never forget the disappointment he felt in that moment, or the expression of hurt on his son’s face when he confronted him before a mask of studied blankness took its place.

Come to think of it, he doesn’t remember Tim spending time at Wayne Manor or the Bat Cave of his own free will since just prior to that encounter. He frowns. Before he has time to untangle any of the implications, the conversation moves on.

Jason raises a dramatic hand to his chest. “How fuckin’ dare you, I would _never._ I’m just gonna talk to her. Loudly. With threats and—okay, fuck, yeah I’m totally planning to use my guns too. What the hell, replacement, you _saw_ him back there, you heard what he said! He told her _no.”_

Batman tenses, his fists tightening so much his gauntlets creak as the penny drops and he can’t deny the facts any longer. They all heard what Dick said. The comms were left open the entire time so he and the others would be able to send further assistance if either Tim’s or Dick’s condition deteriorated to the point that it became necessary.

Everyone heard a great deal more than they intended, or wanted, about the demons which haunt the first Robin.

The fact that Tim and Jason are very possibly planning a murder right in front of him is evidence that none of them are handling it very well. The fact that he isn’t immediately leaping in to stop them—

Well. Things are complicated with both of these sons right now, and he considers it quite probable that his urging them to do something would be the surest way to induce them to do the exact opposite. He and Jason have had far too many conversations about killing which ended in raised voices and angry fists. The last thing he needs is to make the fraught situation with Jason even worse or repeat a broken pattern with Tim.

He winces faintly.

In a moment of painful mental clarity, he wonders if the reason he was so hard on Tim over the Boomerang incident is that Tim is his only remaining child who _hasn’t_ killed. Damian and Cass did so before they were old enough to choose for themselves, and _damn_ their poor excuses for parents for forging innocent children into weapons. Dick’s anger overcame his judgement and it was only in the aftermath that Bruce realized his love for his son is greater than his hatred for the Joker. Bringing that monster back was the hardest thing he’s ever done, but watching Dick destroy himself with guilt would have been even worse. As for Jason, well, no one’s ever going to forget that duffel bag full of heads.

It wasn’t supposed to be like that with Tim. He was never supposed to even contemplate killing.

The idea of him doing so, supported by the clear evidence of his premeditated actions with respect to his father’s murderer, his ominous association with Ra’s, and even his now apparent accord with Jason, smacks of a failure so profound Batman never wants to face it. What good is he, if he can’t inspire even _one_ of his children to a true belief in his code?

What good is he, when he knows how close he has come in his darkest moments to stumbling off the path himself, and never finding his way back? He wonders if any of them can see the hypocrisy of his judgement.

With a deep breath, he quiets those unsettling thoughts, drawing himself back to the current moment and its challenges. Time enough to brood later, once the exigencies of the current situation have been dealt with. He frowns. Catalina Fiores. Try as he might, he can’t prevent her image from ghosting through his mind, overlain by the memory of Dick’s choked voice whispering, “I told her no.”

His teeth bare in an involuntary grimace.

He won’t allow Jason to kill the woman, at least. But he would certainly not be opposed to teaching her a harsh lesson. Along with every other person who put that tremble of fear, that aching desolation in Dick’s voice.

His jaw clenches as he remembers Dick’s bright smile as a child, his unflagging energy and cheer. How long ago did he stop smiling like that? How did Batman fail to notice when it happened?

What can he possibly do to _fix_ this?

“I know,” Tim is saying, sounding apologetic. “Sorry, I know. Anyway, digging deeper into her file, it looks like the point’s not really up for debate? Apparently, she was incarcerated in Blüdhaven when Chemo fell. So…” He breaks off with a grimace and a shrug.

“Well, shit,” Jason says, crossing his arms and making a disgruntled face. “Okay, well who’s next on the list?” His face stretches in a tired, lopsided grin and he grabs a cookie off the plate at his side.

Batman catches his breath, stunned. That expression. It’s the same look Jason used to get after a long patrol when they were just about to head back to base, and someone screamed in the next alley or a break-in alarm went off. He was always ready and eager to help, even when he was so weary he could barely hold back a yawn.

He swallows with difficulty, taken entirely by surprise. He hadn’t thought Jason capable of looking like that anymore.

Tim’s typing speeds up again, a sure sign of interest. “Looks like it’s this guy—I think we can get him on tax evasion if nothing else. I mean, obviously he belongs in jail for lots of reasons, but the evidence—”

“Mind if I rough him up some?”

“Course not, he deserves it.” Tim looks up just as Jason twists and glances back over his shoulder, and they smile at each other like brothers.

It’s a moment of shared excitement, camaraderie, and Batman’s lips twitch. He doesn’t quite smile. That wouldn’t be appropriate, considering the boys are bonding over their brother’s trauma and their own plans to wreak vengeance on the various perpetrators of that trauma. It’s still something he never thought he’d see, not with these two.

Batman stares at them, and then slowly reaches up to peel back the cowl.

This is the first time Jason has been here as _himself_ since—well, since _before._ He’s been in the Cave multiple times to team up with them for necessity’s sake, but not once has he removed both the helmet and the mask. He certainly hasn’t ever relaxed to this degree. Somehow, Bruce feels like this is something he should face as Bruce and not the Bat.

Maybe doing so will encourage Jason to stick around longer.

Maybe not. Bruce bites back a mirthless smile. Jason seems to hate the sight of his face and the cowl equally most days. Either will probably work to drive him away, all good intentions aside. Reaching up and scrubbing at his face, he settles back in the chair with a tired sigh and turns away from the bloodthirsty pair to stare at Dick, dark thoughts finally rising up to consume him.

Dick, his first child, the one who’s fought by his side the longest and given the most to the Mission over the years.

He sits by his oldest partner’s side, wondering when he lost control of everything. His partners—no, his _children—_ have all endured such trauma, fought so hard and lost so much in supporting his self-appointed mission. Dick, perhaps, most of all. Although that point is arguable, he thinks with a rueful grimace, considering Jason literally died and none of the others have ever had it easy by any means.

But it wasn’t until tonight, hearing Dick’s broken voice over the comms spilling out his innermost secrets, the most private, vulnerable thoughts and fears he never would have shared willingly, that Bruce truly registered how much the boy he took in so long ago has endured. He winces, recalling certain moments and episodes he very much wishes he could have prevented, terrible things he did and said he longs to take back. He would take it all away if he could, from all of them, and shoulder their burdens himself.

But… he can’t. If he’s never managed to heal the broken shards of his own long-ago heartbreak, then what chance has he at helping his children with theirs? All he has to offer them is the same deflection and suppression he’s used to keep his own grief in check, the wounds of his loss still as raw and powerful now as the day it happened, even after all these years.

Worse is seeing Dick’s grief and confusion, his regret at how his relationship with his siblings has deteriorated because of the impossible positions Bruce and the mission put him in time and again. He feels the weight of responsibility, but he has no idea how to fix any of it.

He can’t repair his own broken and strained relationships—his strategy is usually to wait until enough time has passed for his offense to be tacitly ignored if not forgotten, or for the other person to somehow find a way to get past it on their own. God knows, he’s no help there.

Watching his son sleep, he experiences a surge of longing and self-loathing. If he were a better man, a better _person,_ he could help bridge the gaps he was instrumental in creating between this son and the others. Mend and strengthen those relationships, just as Jason and Tim seem to have discovered a way to somehow move past their painful history and learn to coexist without harming each other.

He isn’t.

As Dick’s fingers twitch and he stirs, clearly on the verge of awakening, Bruce wishes he were strong enough to stay at his side and speak the words he so obviously needs to hear. Apologize for his shortcomings, and say the right thing to miraculously lift the weight of grief and guilt he carries, the pain which tonight’s devastating incident has laid bare.

He’s not.

Running his fingers through his boy’s hair, he allows himself to have this for just a while longer. In a moment, he’ll get up and walk away. He’ll head over to the Batcomputer and get started on tonight’s report. By the time Dick opens his eyes, the only evidence Bruce was ever here will be his fading warmth on the empty chair.

Dick’s hair is still so soft. It feels just like when he was a child and Bruce used to tousle his hair to show him he’d done a good job. Things were so much simpler back then. He watches Dick’s smooth brow start to furrow, and wishes once again he were a better man, worthy of the trust and love his children have gifted him with over the years.

He’s really not.

Just another moment. Dick’s eyelids begin to flutter, and Bruce steps back, feeling cold the instant he pulls his hand away. That doesn’t stop him from turning to leave.

After all, he’s a selfish man.

“Bruce?” The soft voice, almost a whisper, chains him in place with bonds more powerful and sure than any physical restraints.

He stays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Bruce, rushing back to the Cave to check on his compromised sons:** *Braces himself, ready to find them unconscious, badly injured, and possibly fighting each other* “...”  
>  **Tim, quietly playing on his computer and eating cookies:** *Waves* “Hey B!”  
>  **Dick, unconscious but smiling slightly in his sleep, also clutching a cookie:** “...”  
>  **Bruce:** “I’m not quite sure what to do with this” *Immediately begins to brood about all his many parenting failures over the years*  
>  **Jason, popping up out of nowhere:** “Yo Timmy gimme the deets, I gotta know who to shoot to get vengeance for Dickie” *Notices Bruce, winces and then visibly braces himself to be lectured about the sanctity of life*  
>  **Bruce, visibly not lecturing Jason:** *Turns the other way and pretends he can’t hear them planning their terrible vengeance, soothes conscience with resolve to intervene before anyone actually gets shot* “Parenting is hard” *Pats Dick gently on the head, longs for simpler days when the worst he had to worry about was getting headbutted by a rogue*  
>  **Dick:** *Begins to wake up*  
>  **Bruce, panicking:** *Attempts to flee, freezes when his boy whispers his name. Turns around*


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote this chapter adapted from Nightwing Vol. 4 #16

The first sensation Dick registers is something soft, cradling most of his body in a cloud of warmth. The chill he feels on his face and hands, coupled with the whisper-soft flutterings he registers next, is so familiar it’s entirely possible he recognized his current location in his sleep. That might be why he feels safe right now despite the scattered remnants of the nightmares which still linger around the edges of his consciousness.

He allows himself to bask in the sheer relief of being in the present again, no longer haunted by the too-real ghosts of old sorrows. Well, no more than usual, anyway.

There’s a warm weight resting on his hair. He tries to hold still, not wanting to give away the fact that he’s awake if he hasn’t already done so. A moment later, he hears a quiet sigh and feels the soft, hesitant touch of careful fingers running through his hair.

It’s familiar, bringing a lump to his throat as it fills him with a sense memory so vivid he could almost open his eyes and be back there. The slide and tug of gentle fingers skimming through his hair brings him back to when he was a child and all he needed to feel better was Bruce smiling at him and ruffling his hair.

That stopped being true a long time ago. The years have tarnished his relationship with his mentor and taken him a long way from the little boy who once believed with all his heart. Even so, he doesn’t open his eyes. As long as they’re closed, he can keep pretending—

The fingers stop moving and lift away from his head entirely. Dick opens his eyes just in time to see Bruce in the suit with the cowl down. He’s walking away.

“Bruce?” There’s a welter of emotions churning in his chest he couldn’t begin to quantify if he tried. He doesn’t expect Bruce to stop. He really doesn’t expect him to turn around and sink awkwardly back into the chair he so recently vacated.

He does.

Bruce clears his throat, looking just as baffled by his own actions. The sight of the man’s tousled hair, shadowed eyes, and deeply furrowed brow sends a panicked jolt through Dick. For him to look this worried, someone must have been seriously hurt.

He shakes off his lingering lethargy and forces himself to sit up, feeling only a faint twinge of regret as the soft, warm covers slip off his shoulders and pool around his waist. “Who’s hurt?” he asks, his voice a rasp. He coughs, trying to clear his throat, and scrubs at his eyes. It doesn’t matter how exhausted he is, not if someone needs him.

Out of nowhere, a big hand descends on his chest and pushes him back down with gentle but implacable force. “You’re the only one who got hurt, dumbass—now stay the fuck down and heal. _Christ.”_

Dick rocks back against the pillows, blinking in confusion as his gaze follows the hand up a beefy arm to land on a scowling face. “Jason?” The sight of Jason Todd, standing in the Cave without his helmet or even a domino to hide behind, is so unexpected he just stares at him for a long moment, wondering if he’s still dreaming. Then he catches sight of the occupied quarantine cell behind him and forgets everything else in a surge of worry. “What’s wrong with Tim? Why’s he in quarantine?” His heart slams as he imagines countless all too believable explanations, each worse than the last.

Ivy, Scarecrow, Croc… Even Joker was out last night. He might have left a few choice surprises planted around town for unsuspecting people to stumble on. There are way too many options for what might have put Tim in that cell. Anything could have happened after Dick wasn’t there to look out for him anymore. That damn fear toxin—

Dick freezes as an even worse possibility sends a chill down his spine and makes his stomach twist.

He has faint memories of Red Hood and Red Robin escorting him back to base. Did he fight them, injure Tim? If he had open wounds, the possibility of cross-contamination from Scarecrow’s chemicals would have been all too real.

“What happened?” he rasps, unable to look at Tim anymore as guilt surges up and threatens to overwhelm him.

“Shit,” Jason says, wincing. “Dickie, Tim’s okay. He just got a little pollen and had to go in time out for a while. Seriously, he’s fine—just look!”

Dick glances over to the quarantine cell, still not willing to believe everything’s okay. This time, he takes a closer look beyond just identifying who’s in there. “Oh,” he says softly, feeling an involuntary smile start to form as his heart begins to unclench. Tim is curled around his laptop, a plate of what looks like Alfred’s best triple chocolate cookies resting on his knees. He glances up and notices Dick looking, and gives him a hesitant little wave. “Okay,” he breathes, feeling his entire body relax as the sense of urgency trickles away. “That’s good.”

Bruce clears his throat, looking incredibly uncomfortable. “Dick, I—” He breaks off and stares at him, face set in an indecipherable expression.

“Uh…” Dick resists the urge to squirm under that intent gaze. After a minute, he grimaces. “I know I should have had better situational awareness and caught Scarecrow before he managed to slip me the toxin. And actually, I probably should have made sure he was secured better, not just trusted Ivy’s vines to hold him. I compromised everyone’s safety. But—”

“That’s not what I want to talk about,” Bruce says, looking pained. His eyes narrow, glinting in the reflected light from the monitors. “Although I did train all of you better than to leave defeated rogues lying around insufficiently secured. You should have—” He cuts himself off again at Jason’s loud throat clearing and seems to shrink slightly under his second son’s glare. After a moment, he looks back at Dick. “What I wanted to say was, I’m sorry. I should have been there for you so many times, and I wasn’t.”

Dick frowns, trying to puzzle out what he might be talking about. Part of him is thrown by the sheer weirdness of hearing Bruce’s voice saying the word _sorry._ Maybe he’s still dreaming? “You were busy taking down the Joker,” he says slowly. “No one expected you to be in Robinson Park. Anyway, I’ve been on my own for years. I can handle myself in a fight and my mistakes are my own.”

“No, I mean, I should have been there for you all those other times. Whenever you stumbled under the weight of your burdens, I should have been there to help shoulder them. I’m sorry you thought you had to carry so much on your own.”

He has an uncomfortable feeling he knows what’s going on. Scrubbing at his face, he sighs. “So I was talking the whole time I was on fear toxin, huh?” His voice comes out muffled.

“Yep,” Jason says, sounding sympathetic. “And the comms were on.”

Well, crap. That’s uncomfortable on so many levels. He’s going to have to figure out exactly what he said and run some damage control. Better get started on that now. Raising his head, he meets Bruce’s eyes and tries to smile. “I’m fine. You know how fear toxin works. It exaggerates fears, makes things seem worse than they really are—”

He breaks off, stunned by the feeling of strong, warm arms wrapped around him. Bruce is embracing him, one large hand carefully curved around the back of his head and the other pressed to his back as he holds him close and whispers, “I’m _sorry,_ Dick. You never deserved any of what you’ve gone through. I’d take it all away if I could, chum.”

Somehow, after all the nightmares and horrors and memories of desolation and grief, those words are what pushes him over the edge. A sob rips from his throat and his chest seizes, a horrible tightness locking his throat. His eyes sting and then he’s shaking, wet warmth spreading where his face is pressed into Bruce’s shoulder. At this moment, it doesn’t matter exactly what the others know or what he might have said while he was compromised.

What matters is that Bruce cares.

The steady warmth of Bruce’s hand on his back remains until he finally calms down and goes still. Dick sits back, sniffing and scrubbing at his eyes, and then releases a shaky breath. He meets Bruce’s steady gaze with a hint of embarrassment and an attempt at a reassuring smile. “Sorry about that.”

Bruce shakes his head, the corners of his lips twitching. He continues to stare for a long, awkward moment before he straightens and clears his throat. “You will need to remain in medical care under continuous monitoring for at least another six hours. This was a new formula, so the effects are unpredictable and we need to be prepared for delayed symptoms.” After finishing his pronouncement, he hesitates, then turns and strides away.

Dick blinks, too tired and wrung out to deal with Bruce’s… Bruce-ness.

A loud snort makes him jump. He turns and sees Jason, who is shaking his head and sneering as Bruce practically flees Dick’s presence. As they watch, he takes refuge at the Batcomputer and immediately buries himself in casefiles.

“Fuck, he’s just an asshole all the time, isn’t he? I always thought he was less of a dick to the rest of you.” Jason turns to look at Dick, face serious as he studies him.

Dick frowns. “I mean, I think he was pretty nice just now? He hugged me and apologized. That’s pretty much a cathartic breakthrough for Bruce.”

“But then he used up his damn emotional quota for the year and shut down, and now he’s probably never going to even mention any of this again unless you bring it up.”

“That’s just Bruce.” Dick shrugs it off with a self-deprecating smile. He’ll take it. At least he got a hug out of it.

Jason eyes him, his frown deepening, then blinks. “Oh my god, you’re just happy he hugged you.” He looks like he isn’t sure whether he should be horrified or amused.

Busted. “Yeah?” There’s nothing wrong with liking hugs.

Jason shakes his head and huffs. After a minute, he leans down and opens his arms. Dick just stares at him for a long moment before Jason rolls his eyes. “Seriously? You’re really gonna make me do this?” Still grumbling, the big man leans forward the rest of the way and pulls him close in a rough hug.

Oh. Jason carries the acrid aroma of smoke, and his body armor is even less huggable than Bruce’s, but still…

It’s nice.

Dick closes his eyes and sighs quietly, allowing himself to relax into the contact once he’s sure it isn’t a precursor to a sucker punch or something. You never know what you’re getting with Jason.

Two hugs in one night? This is totally worth getting hit with fear toxin. Although the emotional vulnerability of having everyone overhear god knows what about his tortured past is still disturbing on so many levels. Still, hugs. He nestles slightly closer and sneaks an arm around him and then pauses, wondering why Jason is even here right now.

Even with whatever pathetic truths Dick blurted out while under the influence of fear toxin, he’s not sure why Jason would have bothered to stick around after getting him back here. Although, he and Tim seem to have been working well together lately. Maybe he just stayed to make sure Tim was okay. A sinking, hollow feeling opens up in his chest at the thought.

The corners of his mouth tilt down as he tries to shove those feelings away. His grip tightens. Even if this is a pity hug, he’s going to hold on as long as Jason will let him. “I’m surprised you bothered to stay,” slips out before he can stop it, emotional and physical exhaustion blunting his control.

Jason goes tense in his arms and he pulls back, bracing himself for a violent outburst. _I never seem to be able to avoid Jason’s triggers,_ he thinks, his mouth twisting. No wonder his little brother never seeks him out.

“What the hell?” Jason’s voice pulls Dick’s gaze up to his face, which looks more bemused than angry. “I stayed to make sure you were alright, dumbass. And…” He looks down, shifting his weight, and then lifts pained teal eyes to meet his. “Dickie, when you were…” He swallows. His eyes are very bright. “You said you killed him. The Joker.”

The memory of Joker’s blood on his hands and the sick crack of fists against flesh fills his mind, along with the swell of crushing guilt when he realized what he’d done. Dick winces, closing his eyes and shaking his head. He can’t stop seeing the vivid red of blood painted across sickly white skin. “Jay, I—”

Big warm hands close over his and squeeze. He looks up only to be caught by Jason’s steady gaze. “Dick, just listen. It’s the one thing I wanted when I came back. Someone to care about me enough to kill that fuckin’ murderous bastard, so I could sleep without being afraid that someday I’d wake up to that goddamn evil laughter again, to that _pain.”_ He swallows again, his throat working as he blinks rapidly against the shimmer of unshed tears. “I just—fuckin’ _thank you_ , Dickie. I know how much that must’ve cost you to do, but you’ll never know what it means to me that you tried.”

His heart is breaking. For the first time, he doesn’t regret what he did. “I’m so sorry for what happened to you, Jay, I—” He breaks off, shaking his head. There’s nothing he can ever say or do to fix that. For the thousandth time, he wishes he’d been there for his little brother when it mattered most.

He wouldn’t have held back against the Joker. Not with Jason’s life on the line. His hands clench at the thought and he forces himself to relax so he can focus on his brother.

Jason shrugs. “I’m past a lot of the worst of it now. But this… Knowing what you did really fuckin’ helps.” He scrubs at wet eyes and sniffs loudly.

Dick silently hands him a tissue from the bedside table, then does a double take while Jason vigorously blows his nose. There’s a plate sitting there. How did he not notice it before? “Wait, are those Alfred-cookies? How come you guys didn’t tell me I had Alfred-cookies?” He reaches out and palms a couple, then takes a large bite. So good. “Want one?” He offers a cookie to Jason. None of them are any good at emotions, but Alfred-cookies taste like happiness so they’re bound to help, right?

Jason shrugs, accepting it. “Bruce ate like half of ‘em while he was waiting for you to wake up. He probably didn’t want to ‘fess up and face the music. I was just waiting for you to notice.”

“What the heck?” Dick grabs the plate and clutches it close, then raises an eyebrow at Jason when he snags another cookie. “Why don’t you have a plate of your own, anyway?”

“I did.” Jason points over to the quarantine cell Tim is currently occupying. Sure enough, there’s an empty plate on the floor beside the cell. Tim spots them looking again and gives another cheery wave, which Jason returns with a quick grin.

Dick softens at the sight. Looks like the others were keeping each other company while he was unconscious. That’s cool. Also weird, considering their history. “Since when are you two so close, anyway?” He knows he shouldn’t pick at what must be a barely-healed wound, but he can’t help himself. The last he saw, Jason and Tim were still a volatile combination more likely to end in stabbings than hanging out and sharing cookies.

Jason shrugs and heaves a deep sigh, looking away. “At some point, instead of going our separate ways after sparring on patrol, we just sat down on the damn rooftop, patched each other up, and talked. Turned out we had a lot more in common than I ever thought.” He snorts, mouth twisting. “Did a lot of bonding over being the failed Robins.”

Dick winces. That’s not right. Both Jason and Tim were and are amazing and skilled, heroes in their own right. “You’re not—”

“Oh yeah?” Jason’s burning gaze snaps back to meet his. “I died, he was fired. Sounds like failures to me. Always getting compared to you and coming up short next to the golden boy who could do no wrong.”

“What the hell Jason, I was fired too. Twice!” Dick waves his hands at the sheer ridiculousness of the others putting him a pedestal.

“Well we know that now,” Jason grumbles, the tips of his ears going pink. He makes a face, then chuckles. “Guess you can be part of our club now. Along with Blondie, of course.”

“Uh, thanks.” He can’t help but feel warmed at the thought. “What does that involve?”

“Just meet up with us for a beer every once in a while, maybe watch whatever classic movie or crap scifi wins the coin toss.” Jason huffs a laugh, then looks over at the Batcomputer and rolls his eyes at the stiff line of Bruce’s back. “Anyway, I’m about at my limit for family togetherness or whatever.” He sweeps one last glance around the Cave, nodding at Tim and waving his middle finger in Bruce’s general direction, then flashes Dick a lopsided grin. “Seeya around, Dickiebird. Don’t be a stranger.”

With that, he turns and struts toward the vehicle bay, even as the roar of approaching engines heralds the arrival of the others. “Thanks, Blondie!” he says as he snags the purple motorcycle before Batgirl has even fully disembarked. “I’ll get it back to you in one piece, I swear!”

“Fine, I was planning to stay here tonight anyway. But you owe me a huge favor!” Batgirl calls after him as he roars away on her bike. “I’m gonna make him paint my toenails,” she informs Black Bat as she pushes off her cowl and allows her long blonde hair to tumble free.

Black Bat nods seriously. “Fair.”

Turning to the medical bay, Batgirl spots Tim and Dick watching, and grins. “Hey, everyone’s awake!” Towing Black Bat by the elbow, she waves at Tim and bounces over to stand beside Dick’s bed. Despite her cheer, there’s tension around her blue eyes which is only obvious when it fades after she looks him over. “You’re looking way better.” She gives him a tired grin. “Don’t worry, Robin roughed Scarecrow up pretty good for you. Idiot tried to run away while we were rounding up the others, and Robin brought him down before he made it ten feet.”

That shouldn’t make warmth bloom in Dick’s chest, but it does. He can’t help but smile affectionately at the thought of Damian showing he cares. He shrugs, relaxing at Steph’s easy warmth. “I’m feeling way better.”

Cass carefully peels off her mask before eyeing him in a measuring way. She glances at his hands and says, “Blue.”

Everyone’s used to Cass and her cryptic utterances, but he’s having trouble figuring this one out. “Blue?”

Steph glances toward Tim and grins at his approving nod before turning back to them. “Definitely! I bet we can mix something up to match his costume. Tim can help. This is going to be great!” She bounces in place, looking happy and energized in a way most people wouldn’t after a long day and longer night. Dick can usually relate to that feeling, but this is an off night for him. “You’re obviously not going to be up for anything this week, but wanna come hang out the next time we all meet up?”

Dick still feels a bit lost, but he figures he might as well roll with it. There’s plenty of time to figure out what he’s agreeing to before next week.

Cass takes pity on him. “Useful,” she says, holding up her hands and wiggling her fingers so her black nail polish catches the light. “Cuts glass.”

“Yep,” Steph says, waving her own hand to show off deep violet fingernails. “After the last time Damian was kidnapped and had to fight his way out using three crayons and a straw from the juice box the kidnappers were dumb enough to give him, we decided it would be a good idea for everyone to have some better inbuilt protection. We have parties every few weeks to repaint and try out new colors and formulations.”

“Sounds like fun,” he says, feeling only a slight pang at the thought that all of them have apparently been hanging out and having fun regularly and he never even knew.

Ouch.

Cass shakes her head, looking upset. “Not you,” she says. “Others… need.” She grimaces, clearly frustrated with her inability to use words with the same expert grace she wields in fighting and reading body language.

“After Bruce came back, all of us were kind of messed up, in a lot of different ways,” Steph says, the effervescent grin finally slipping from her face. “Cass and Tim and I started it, just hanging out together and learning how to relax and have fun together again. Then Tim dragged Jason along, and Babs got curious about what we were up to. As for Damian—” She breaks off, snickering.

“Damian?” Dick prompts, very curious about how his grumpy-cat, prickly littlest brother somehow ended up apparently joining in on their siblings’ slumber parties.

“Showed up,” Cass contributes, a sweet, mischievous smile blooming on her face.

Steph cackles. “He burst in wearing the full Robin getup, katana and all. Poor little guy was convinced we were plotting to overthrow Batman and take over the city or something. He was so shocked to find us in pajamas eating pizza, painting each other’s nails, and watching reruns of that terrible campy live-action Batman show—you know, the one where they based Batman’s secret identity on Oliver Queen, and Robin is played by a man who’s got be at least thirty?”

Dick knows. Oh, he knows, and he’s been trying to forget. All those “pows” and “bams” and “holy contributing to the delinquency of minors, Batman!” Worst of all, though, is the visual of a grown man with a grown man’s abundant leg hair, wearing the Robin leotard. The costume that seemed like the best idea ever when he was twelve looks different—and bulgier—in retrospect. The last thing he needs is any more reminders of that show.

“Don’t talk about it,” he begs.

Grinning, Steph regards him for a moment, mischief in every line of her posture, and then relents. “You’ve been through a lot tonight, so I’ll save the trolling for later. When we’re watching them all again, with you!”

Oh, hell no. He’ll vote for literally anything but that. Maybe he can get Tim on his side by suggesting Star Trek? “Thanks,” he says, chuckling despite himself. “I think.”

She shrugs, unoffended. “Anyway, Dames was kind of in shock, I think, and had no idea how to react to any of it. So we fed him pizza and painted his nails a gorgeous forest green. I think what really won him over was realizing he could cut glass with his nails.”

“That would do it,” Dick nods. Damian always feels better when he has a weapon in easy reach. He lowers his gaze, feeling sad and happy at the same time. He hates that his little brother was raised in a way that makes him feel unsafe all the time, but…

It sounds like he’s relaxing a little, and starting to trust more than just a tiny handful of people. It’s a start.

“Hey there, Man Wonder,” a very familiar voice says, and he glances up to see Babs smiling at him from the other side of the bed, her blue eyes bright. He must be more exhausted than he realized to miss the sound of her wheelchair approaching. “I was worried about you. Feeling a little better?” Her eyes dim slightly and he wonders what he must have said earlier to put that sadness in her voice.

Memories of their long and rocky history crash through his mind and he tenses. There are far too many possibilities. He tries to hide the flinch, but she sees it. Of course she does. Babs can read him like one of her books.

“I’m okay,” he says honestly. “Still a little shaken up, I guess, but there don’t seem to be any lingering effects.”

She releases her breath in a deep sigh and visibly relaxes. She probably knows better than any of them the myriad potential negative effects of fear toxin. Her ability to dive into a subject and soak up information can be a double edged sword sometimes, when not knowing would be the more merciful option. “I’m glad.” She reaches out and squeezes his hand, then glances over at Steph and Cass before looking back at him. “So, I hear you’re coming to the next paint party?”

“Apparently,” he says with what feels like a goofy smile. He can’t help it—Babs brings out his dorky side. Around her, a part of him will always be the doofy teen with a crush.

“Good,” she says, flashing a brilliant smile. “I’ve got so many great stories to tell everyone about you.”

“Uh…” That does not sound appealing. No one needs to know about all the chandeliers he broke over the years, trying to show off for Babs.

Steph snort-laughs and bends over, cackling. “Oh my god, the look on your face! Don’t worry—we all do it. It’s fun to hear stories about ridiculous things that happened on the job, and I know you probably have some hilarious ones to tell, too.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Well, there _was_ the time I taught Tim train-surfing…”

“Perfect!” Babs leans forward and pulls him into a quick, fierce embrace. “It will be good to see you around more,” she whispers.

And then she’s gone, taking Steph and Cass with her, only the fragrance of her shampoo and lingering warmth to remind him she was here. The women disappear upstairs, using the lift and chattering the whole way.

Dick blinks, then glances down at the plate on his lap and frowns. Three of the cookies are missing. “Those sneaky little—”

“I can’t believe you didn’t notice them stealing your cookies,” Tim says, plopping down in the chair at his bedside. He’s holding his own plate, still piled ridiculously high. Unfair. “Cass took one right in front of you. Steph waited until your back was turned, and Babs got one while she was hugging you.”

“So underhanded,” he murmurs. “I don’t know if I should feel betrayed or proud.”

“Both works,” Tim says, stuffing a cookie in his mouth so his cheeks puff out like a squirrel. It’s adorable and also sort of gross.

Dick eyes his plate thoughtfully, then slides his gaze over to Tim’s. Tim has way too many cookies. Maybe he could…

“Mine,” Tim hisses, coiling around his plate protectively.

“Why do you even have so many? That has to be twice as many as I had.”

Tim shrugs, clearly unmoved by his plight. “Bruce ate half your plate before you even woke up, remember?”

Damn it, Bruce. “Oh yeah.” Dick eyes his sad, mostly empty plate in despondent resignation until Tim sighs and drops three cookies on it. “Thanks!” He picks one up and nibbles at it, eyeing him. He isn’t quite sure how to proceed with this little brother. It feels like there are pitfalls in every direction and he’s wearing a blindfold. “So… The pollen’s worn off?”

Tim shrugs. “I mean, probably? I don’t know, the physical reactions finally went away so I just picked the lock and came out. I was starting to get bored in there.” He rolls his eyes as Dick opens his mouth to protest. Experimental pollens are never a good idea to just brush off, especially since some side effects don’t even show up until hours later. “I swear, I won’t leave the property, so if anything happens I’ll be near medical attention. You don’t have to worry so much.” He draws his legs up onto the chair and wraps his arm around his knees, flashing deep red fingernails. Resting his chin on his arm, he regards Dick with a faint smile. “You really are worried about me, aren’t you?” He sounds surprised, like he doesn’t quite believe what he’s saying.

Dick’s heart breaks a little more. “Of course I’m worried about you, Timmy. You’re my little brother—it’s practically my job to worry about you.”

Tim’s smile slips a bit and he looks down, waves of loose hair falling in his eyes. He shrugs. “It didn’t seem that way, for a while.”

The past seems to be almost tangible, pressing between them and weighing down Dick’s chest so he can barely force out his next words. “I’m sorry,” he says after a moment. “I never meant to hurt you. I was only trying to do what was best for everyone, and I didn’t make the right choice for you.”

He’s still not sure what the right choice to fit everyone’s needs would have been, but there must have been one.

Tim shakes his head and meets his eyes squarely. “I get that now. When you took away Robin, I really thought you were kicking me out because you didn’t want me here anymore. On the mission, in the family. I thought it was your way of telling me I wasn’t welcome, and maybe never had been.”

Ouch. That’s even worse than he imagined. His chest aches with the thought of Tim, not even seventeen yet, setting out to take on the world and bring Bruce back with all of that weighing down his heart.

Back then, Dick told him they were equals, that Tim was his closest ally. Why the heck didn’t he tell him they were brothers? Even as the question passes through his mind, he knows it would never have occurred to him to mention something so obvious. Well, apparently it really does need to be said. “Timmy, you’re my brother. I love you so much, and I always want you here.”

“Before, I wouldn’t have believed you, but after what you said earlier—” Tim bites his lip, clearly not sure if he should bring up any of the revelations Dick must have made while under the influence of the fear.

“It’s okay,” Dick says, even though he’s still not sure it is. “If you having heard all of that is enough to convince you how much I care about you, then it’s worth it.” And that’s the truth.

Tim nods and takes another nibble of his cookie. “It is.” After a moment, he brightens. “So, I heard you’re coming to our next pizza and beer night? And the nail polish party?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there for both.” Dick lights up at the sight of the pleased little smile Tim is hiding behind another bite of cookie.

“Awesome! Maybe you can run interference with Damian.” Tim’s eyes narrow. “He always tries to sabotage my nail polish.”

Well, that sounds like Damian. Dick hesitates, then takes the plunge. Tonight’s been all about confronting the big emotional issues head on, after all. “It really would help if you’d quit calling him names like gremlin and homunculus. He’s more sensitive about that kind of thing than you’d think.”

Tim raises a skeptical eyebrow, then huffs a laugh. “Fine, fine—I guess it has been a while since he actually tried to hurt me. I’m still calling him a brat if he acts like one, though.”

“That’s… probably about as good as I could hope for.” It’s leagues better than it used to be, at least. He twitches when a strident voice interrupts from right behind him.

“I do not care what manner of insults Drake directs at me, as long as he does so from elsewhere. What are you doing here, anyway?” Damian stalks over and scowls at Tim, who just waves at him.

“Dami—” Dick tries to intervene before they can start to squabble, then falls silent. His eyes widen as Damian continues.

“Is this not your weekly night to meet up with Cain and Brown for consumption of inadvisable, foul drinks of dubious nutritional value?”

Tim snickers. “Yep, and I’m already late. Margaritas are tasty! You’ll understand better when you’re older.” He laughs at Damian’s doubtful grimace.

“Wait, I thought you said you weren’t going to leave the property?” Dick’s brows draw together in concern. “You probably shouldn’t be drinking in your condition, either.”

“What?” Tim blinks, then shakes his head, laughing. “Oh, no, Steph and the others moved the whole thing over here so I could still come. And whenever one of us is injured or compromised, they get virgin drinks. Don’t worry, we have this covered.”

Damian snorts. “So the travesty is to occur here, then? I would rather spend my night in the Cave than subject myself to your collective idiocy whilst some of your number are inebriated.” He moves stiffly over to sit beside Dick.

Tim’s gaze softens. “Okay, I should get a move on—they went upstairs like twenty minutes ago and they probably have everything set up by now. We’re supposed to be sharing sparring techniques tonight, too.”

Raising an eyebrow, Damian shakes his head. “You had best do so _before_ consuming alcoholic beverages.”

“Are you kidding? Doing it during is half the fun.” Tim snickers at the appalled look on his face, then gives Dick a hesitant smile. “See you soon?”

“Looking forward to it.” Dick isn’t quite sure how any of this happened, but he’s glad it did. Tim leans forward and hugs him, burying his face in his chest for a long moment before letting go. His smile’s a little wobbly but his eyes are bright and happy as he waves goodbye and heads out.

Dick watches him go, then glances down at the plate on his lap. “Son of a—!” It’s empty. Tim is a sneaky, deceptively innocent-looking little _brat._ He narrows his eyes, watching, and he’s sure he sees Tim throw a laughing glance back over his shoulder from the staircase. That’s definitely one of Dick’s cookies he just shoved in his mouth.

“Would you like me to pursue him and retrieve your nourishment?” Damian’s eyes glitter as he watches Tim move up the stairs.

Uh-oh. The two of them seem to be getting along better than before, but apparently Dami still has a tendency to get aggressive a little too easily around Tim. “Uh, no, it’s not that important—” No one needs to start a fight over cookies. Even delicious, delicious Alfred-cookies. Dick suppresses a sad sigh. He only got to eat a handful of the plate Alfred left for him.

“That will not be necessary, Master Damian. I have your plate here, and a second plate for Master Dick. He needs to regain his strength, after all.” Alfred’s warm voice draws their attention to him as he approaches, bearing a tray loaded with three plates, two glasses of milk, and a cup of tea.

“Thanks, Alfred!” Dick reaches for his milk and cookies eagerly. No one’s going to get away with stealing these ones. Damian accepts his portion with a gracious nod, sipping his tea before taking a bite of cookie.

Alfred pauses, then leans forward and gently brushes the hair out of Dick’s eyes. “I am so very glad you are well, young sir.” His hand lingers for a moment and he smiles softly before stepping back and carrying the tray over to Bruce. As he sets the rest down by the Batcomputer, Dick hears him begin to scold Bruce for eating part of Dick’s snack. He grins. Alfred really is the best of them.

“You should sleep,” Damian says gruffly, drawing his attention back to the boy at his side. “Your body is still recovering and must not be strained, or you will risk doing yourself further harm.”

Dick’s gaze travels over him, noting the tense posture and the way he’s glaring at his cookies instead of looking at him. His arms ache to reach over and pull him in for a hug, but he knows better than to try. It’s been a long while since he could get away with doing that. If he oversteps now, he might lose the chance to talk to Damian at all. “I’m resting,” he says, leaning back against his pillows. He yawns and stretches his arms over his head theatrically. “See?”

The corner of Damian’s lip twitches before he catches himself and draws his mouth back into a determined frown. “No,” he says in a snippy tone. “Resting involves closing one’s eyes and mouth and lying still, Grayson, not flopping about on the bed like a beached seal.”

Hearing the underlying note of real anxiety in Damian’s tone, Dick relents and lowers his arms to lie quietly. “Dames,” he says in a soft voice, “I’m fine. You know that, right? It was just a little fear toxin, and it’s under control now.”

Damian’s burning glare finally snaps up to meet his, and oh, he’s not just worried. He’s _mad._ “Under control? You call _this_ under control?” The teen leans forward and sweeps his arm, indicating the medical cot and beeping machinery which surround him. “It was mere chance that Crane had a mild formulation of fear toxin in that vial instead of something lethal! You could have gone into a psychotic rage, or been driven to a heart attack. You could have _died!”_

“It wasn’t,” Dick says, taken aback by how worked up he is over this. “I didn’t. There’s nothing to worry about—”

“Do you not understand? I had known it was bad, but your words tonight revealed the true breadth of the problem. How many times, Grayson? How many times have you come close to death, and none of us were there to save you?” He crosses his arms with a fierce scowl.

“Dami, it’s not—”

Damian steamrolls right over his weak denials. “You allow yourself to fall into a deplorable state, and your focus narrows to center on the mission to the detriment of your own self preservation. You are going to get yourself killed without someone as focused and infallible as me watching your back. And you do not _have_ that. Can’t you see? We cannot _lose_ you!” He breaks off, panting, realization at what he’s given away slowly dawning in his bright green eyes.

Even as Dick begins to sit up again, physically unable to resist reaching for his little brother when he sounds like _that,_ Damian tries to backtrack. “Not that I’d care! Obviously, it would be inconvenient to Father if you—” He breaks off, his body language at odds with his words as he not only allows Dick to gather him in his arms, he climbs onto the edge of the cot to return the embrace. “This doesn’t mean anything,” he says, voice muffled where his face is pressed into Dick’s shirt.

“I know, buddy,” Dick says, rubbing his back soothingly. “I know.” He sighs and closes his eyes, relishing the warm weight of Damian against his heart. “I’ve missed this,” he murmurs.

The small body in his arms stiffens and he goes tense, eyes snapping open. It’s never a good idea to let your guard down around an enraged Damian.

“If you have missed this, then why did you _leave?”_ Damian says, voice hot and eyes snapping. “You couldn’t wait to be rid of me when Father returned—”

Oh god. “Dami, that’s not what happened, not at all.” Has this really been what Damian thought all this time? “It broke my heart to leave you. I almost didn’t—Bruce had some idea about a new venture, Batman Incorporated, that would have kept him busy and away from Gotham basically full time. It would have left me working as Batman, with you. It was so tempting to just go along with it.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Damian snaps, blinking rapidly and scowling. He reaches up a hand and roughly scrubs at his eyes.

“How could I be so selfish? I’d already had so much time with you, time to get to know the amazing, brave and caring person that you are. How could I deny your father that same opportunity, or take away your chance to finally know him as more than just the Batman or the little pieces of him you picked up from hearing about what he was like?” Dick takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. “You both deserved the chance to get to know each other. I wasn’t going to enable him to run away and deny you that chance.”

“Oh,” Damian says in a subdued voice. “That—I never knew that Father had planned to leave immediately after returning from the past.” He looks up, brow crinkled. “So he did not want—”

Dick sees where his mind is going and he doesn’t like it. “No,” he says fiercely, shaking his head. His grip on his youngest brother tightens, a wave of protective tenderness surging through him at the note of vulnerability in his voice. No one ever seems to understand how insecure Damian can be under all the bravado and snark. Even he can be taken by surprise by it sometimes, and he knows better. “Your dad loves you so much. You know that. He stayed, didn’t he? And you two have had an amazing run as Batman and Robin.”

“I wish you had stayed, too.” Damian’s mouth snaps shut, like he didn’t mean to say that.

“Buddy, so do I. If I thought I could have stuck around without interfering with you and Bruce developing a relationship, I would’ve done it in a heartbeat. It kills me that this is the first time I’ve gotten to hug you in months.” Dick sighs and squeezes his little brother close.

Damian rests his head on his arm and slowly relaxes. “So… It would be detrimental to your recovery if I were to leave right now,” he says carefully.

Smiling, Dick nuzzles the top of his head and wrinkles his nose at the ticklish feeling of Damian’s straight, bristly hair. It’s still surprisingly soft and has the same clean, faint soap smell. “Yeah, I think so. You probably shouldn’t do that.”

“Very well,” Damian decides, closing his eyes. “In that case, I shall remain here until morning.”

Dick grins and tries very hard not to laugh. He doesn’t want to do anything to disturb the balance they’ve found, not when he only just got Damian back. “Sounds like a good plan.”

He allows his own eyes to flutter closed as well. Damian’s warm weight at his side, the soft murmur of Alfred’s and Bruce’s voices, and even the distant flutterings of the bats all contribute to a deep sense of wellbeing and safety. The nightmares that started this all are back to being just a distant memory.

The changes in his relationships with his family, though…

Hopefully, those are here to stay.

Dick isn’t sure how long it’s been when he senses someone watching and opens his eyes. He immediately sees Bruce, who is standing right beside the cot and regarding them with a tender warmth that should look out of place on his face.

It doesn’t. It looks right.

“Hey, B,” he says, speaking quietly so as not to disturb Damian. “You heading up to bed?”

Bruce shakes his head and settles himself into the chair with a quiet sigh. “I think I will be staying down here tonight.”

“And that has nothing to do with the fact that there’s a margarita party going on upstairs, right?” Dick laughs softly. Of course Bruce would rather hide out in the Cave than face his antithesis, lighthearted fun and socialization.

“It does not,” Bruce says with great dignity. His expression softens and he reaches out to tousle Dick’s hair again. “I just want to make sure you’re alright, chum.”

Well, it’s hard to argue with that. Although he’s still pretty sure the party upstairs has something to do with Bruce’s choice as well. “I’m okay,” Dick says, then yawns. “Feeling pretty great, actually.” His heavy eyelids drift closed as he thinks about what that means. It seems pretty strange that he’d feel so good on the same night he had his deepest fears pried open and spilled out for everyone to see and hear.

After a minute, he realizes that it kind of makes sense. After all, the flip side of fear is love. Without something to lose, he’d have nothing to fear.

Lying there, surrounded by his precious family and knowing exactly how much he has to lose, Dick can’t help but smile. It’s so worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dick, waking up:** *Spots Tim in quarantine cell, immediately panics* “Omg is Tim hurt? Did I hurt him? ANSWER ME!!!”  
>  **Jason and Bruce, both looming up out of nowhere:** “No” *Turn and glare at each other for a long moment, jostle shoulders fighting over the chair at Dick’s bedside*  
>  **Jason, after winning:** *Watches approvingly as Bruce skulks away to the Batcomputer* “Yeah, get outta here! Asshole” *Celebrates his victory over Bruce by shooting a spitball at him*  
>  **Dick, still very confused:** “So Tim’s okay?”  
>  **Tim, popping up right next to his bed:** “I’m fine!” *Steals a cookie from a plate Dick didn’t even know he had*  
>  **Dick, grabbing the plate back and immediately licking every cookie:** “My germs! Also, what are you guys even doing here right now? You’ve both been avoiding me for months”  
>  **Tim and Jason, coughing and looking awkward:** “Yeah, our bad. We kinda thought you didn’t give a crap about us until now?”  
>  **Dick, unable to process that thought:** “But you’re my precious baby brothers!” *Is immediately engulfed by hugs. Smiles. Looks up after a moment when he realizes there are way too many arms around him to just belong to two people* “When did you guys get here?”  
>  **Steph, somehow painting her nails while hugging him:** “About a minute ago” *Reaches over to start painting Tim’s nails*  
>  **Babs:** “Thirty seconds ago. I tried to hang back but somehow got sucked into the hug vortex”  
>  **Cass:** “...”  
>  **Tim, gesturing toward Cass:** “And she was here the whole time”  
>  **Damian, nestled right up against Dick in the center of the hug vortex:** “I resent everything about my current situation” *Cuddles closer to Dick, tucks his face under Dick’s chin, and sighs happily* “I shall fight my way free presently. Be prepared for me to use my teeth”  
>  **Bruce, edging closer while taking care not to venture to close to the event horizon:** “Are all of you comfortable? Does anyone need a water bottle or a—OOF” *Tumbles directly into the hug vortex, is absorbed by the group hug* “Alfred, how could you”  
>  **Alfred, smiling faintly and retracting his tripping foot:** “I shall return presently with those water bottles, sir” *Returns with water bottles and cookies, walks calmly into hug vortex*  
>  **Dick, cuddled right in the center of the family hug vortex:** *Sighs happily, somehow nestles them all in even tighter, and drifts to sleep*  
> *  
> Thank you so much to everyone who has given kudos or commented, and extra thanks to the mods over at the Batfam Ship discord for organizing this event! 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the story, and thanks for reading!


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